Without Fear, I Die But Once
by Hoshigumo
Summary: WARNING: This is my playthrough of Fallout 4, with eventual F!Survivor x Danse. Their relationship is going to be the focus of the story, but I wanted to build a fully functional Survivor first. It may take some time for full blown romance to happen. (3/2: Not dead, working on next chapter. Thank you for reading.)
1. Sole Survivor

It felt like a dream.

It must have been. A laughably ridiculous dream, all of it.

She'd wake up and relay it all to her husband, Nate, later that morning over coffee, and he'd chuckle and tell her she'd fallen asleep listening to the radio while going over a case again. Pushing her shoulder to his, she'd say someone has work around here, because we can't all be war heroes. He'd pretend to take offense and scoop her up, laughing all the way to the bedroom. In the evening, she'd put on a gown and help him straighten his tie, admiring how handsome Nate looks in his dress blues, before heading out to his speaking engagement at the Veterans Hall. Codsworth will have put Shaun down for the night, and-

 ** _Shaun._**

Her eyelids twitched; her mind faintly registering a low _ping-ping-ping_ in one ear.

 _ **No.**_ No, her baby was safe. Shaun was safe, and so was Nate. Guilt. That's all this was, guilt over going out for the evening for the first time since bringing Shaun home from the hospital, toying with residual fear from the nightmare. _**That's all.**_

The next _ping_ spiked, and the next, growing faster, knocking on the door of her mind, demanding her attention, like the representative from Vault-Tec had earlier that day. Like the explosions as her family rode the elevator down to Vault 111.

They'd had mere minutes to run up the trail to the construction site, once the sirens started, neither she nor Nate thinking to grab any possessions save their one month old son, who'd cried all the way from doorstep to Vault. He'd only quieted down once she'd kissed both him and his father, before following staff directions and stepping into what they'd claimed was a decompression chamber.

Now, memories of screaming their names behind frost kissed glass, beating her fists as hard as she could as Nate was shot point blank and Shaun whisked away still fresh in her waking mind, it hit her, like a punch to the gut: there'd be no returning home. She'd never wake up in her own bed, and no child, no loving husband waited for her down the hall from their bedroom. Someone had stolen her future, right from in front of her. She hadn't been strong enough to save her family.

Her eyes squeezed tightly against the warmth of fresh tears, cheeks stiff with frozen remnants of old ones shed. Her leadened body refused to move. The whirring of gears and loud click proceeded a strong gust of air, feathering her dark hair over her shoulders. Inhaling sharply through blue tinged lips, feeling life course through her limbs again, she coughed as the cold slithered down her throat and into her lungs, reaching blindly forwards for the glass lid. She met empty space, instead, abruptly spilling out of her containment unit onto the metal floor, breathless.

The monitor registering her vitals had fallen silent. She lay on the floor for several minutes, blood rushing in her ears. She tried opening her eyes, but the safety lights were blinding at first; the world appearing as shapes in varying shades of blue and gray. Lifting her head and pushing up on her arms with a grunt, she managed to sit in a sidesaddle position, rubbing at pulsing tension gathered in her temples. A lump formed in her throat, fear clawing impatiently at her heart; waiting for her vision to clear was agonizing.

When the far wall of cryogenic pods came into focus and she could flex her fingers and toes, she tried to stand. Nerves and muscles screamed electric shock for want of use, but she pushed through it and found shaky footing.

It was straight out of her nightmare. Nate's pod remained closed, but she could make out his form behind the glass, his eyes closed, posture unnatural. Drawing closer, blotches of dark red became visible, spattering the right side of his head, the inside of his chamber, his suit. The monitor attached to his tube had flatlined. He was gone.

Choking back a sob, she tearfully operated the release lever to open the lid of Nate's pod, carding through his wavy hair, caressing his frosted cheek and pale lips. Her name would never pass over those lips again, she realized, wiping an arm across her eyes. He'd never again smile at her. Kiss her. Talk about their future, their son's future. That future would never be. Their infant son, nestled in Nate's arms when the medical team had first loaded them into their pods, truly was taken by her husband's murderers. And the monitors hooked up to friends and neighbors around the room meant they, too, were gone.

She was alone.

The dam finally broke. She wept as her left hand found and twined with his, cries echoing through the silent chamber, grief an overwhelming tide threatening to drag her to her knees. Bracing herself with her free hand against the mouth of the pod, she took deep, ragged breaths, vision swimming. No, no, she couldn't stay here, Shaun needed her now. Chaining herself here would be fatal for both of them, and she had no way of telling how much time she'd already lost.

As her breathing stabilized, she became aware of something smooth, metallic between her fingers. **_Nate's wedding_** _**ring**. _ Portable, lightweight, but solid; something to remember them by, carry with her always. Sniffling, she attempted to pull it free. It stuck fast behind his knuckle, second and third tries no different. The thought of harming Nate's body over such a small thing turned her stomach. Instead, she reached for the dog tags inside the collar of his Vault suit, slipping them over his head and down over her own. The pod door swung closed again as she stepped away, tightening her fist around the dog tags until they nearly cut into her palm.

"I'll find who did this," she told Nate's pale form, touching the glass. "I'll get Shaun back. I promise." She let her arm drop to her side, taking a step back. "I love you." Tears streaming down her cheeks, she moved towards the metal door at the far end of the room, still clutching the dog tags.

Stepping into the main hallway and glancing into side rooms, it appeared as though there were a riot; crates of supplies busted open, papers scattered along the floors, caches of weapons broken into. Bullet casings trailed down the corridor. What had happened to the brightly lit, spotless interior bustling with activity that she remembered? Where was the Overseer? Security? Had whoever taken Shaun murdered the entire staff and taken off with the Vault's inventory?

Reaching the central office, she halted, clasping a hand over her mouth. A skeleton, clad in a white coat, was seated behind the Overseer's desk, heavy eyeglass frames hung from a cord at the neck. Another skeleton in a Vault-Tec security jumpsuit sprawled nearby, clutching a pistol. Whatever had killed these men had done so ages ago, she decided, stepping carefully around them to the still operational computer on the desktop. She could find out more if he'd left his login active, as was common among older associates at the law practice where she'd worked. Apart from writing up case files, she herself didn't have a knack for computers, despite falling in the age category they'd thought proficient with technology. She'd invested in other pursuits.

Fortunately, the computer was still open to the Overseer's personal logs. A cursory search of his files informed her that there had indeed been an uprising, but not from outside the Vault. A shortage of resources had led staff to revolt against the Overseer only months into their stay, but it didn't give her a complete picture of events, or an idea of conditions outside the Vault, things that'd happened while she was frozen. No real starting point to track her son.

An overhead speaker called for mandatory evacuation, startling her out of her thoughts. Hope welled up in her before subsiding again, as the announcement ran for a third time, cadence and pitch identical. The person speaking must be long dead.

She twisted her mouth a little as she retrieved the pistol from the security guard's skeletal hand, gathering some ammunition and strapping on a holster from nearby cabinets before heading out of the office. The weight felt familiar in her hands, evoking the many afternoons spent with her father at the shooting range. After she'd married Nate, the three of them would sometimes meet up at the base and go together. She never was as sharp a shooter as either veteran, but she felt confident enough with a pistol to defend herself, if it came to that.

Or put a bullet between the eyes of the monster that shot her husband. Adrenaline fueled rage surged through her, images of a broad, scarred face resurfacing to taunt her. "Backup," he'd called her, whatever that meant. Perhaps he intended on returning for her? Maybe silencing the last witness of his crime, she thought with a scowl, jamming a fresh magazine into her pistol with shaky hands. **_The bastard's got another thing coming if he thinks I'll just wait for him here._**

Scuttling noises from the next room drew her attention, bringing her focus back to the present. Peering around the door frame, she could make out two, then three, oblong shapes darting between pylons, along the floor. One shuffled near, twiggy antennae busily searching the air, profile illuminated by an emergency light.

"Giant...cockroaches? What the hell?" she heard herself mutter, alerting the mutated insects to her presence.

The roaches were faster than something their size should be, and aiming for a good shot at any of them was incredibly difficult, bullets ricocheting in orange sparks off the floor and walls. One was bold enough to fly at her face; she was able to punch a round through its thorax with a sharp crack, dropping it. The others charged her legs and feet as she recoiled from the last shot, trying to bite their way through her suit. With a cry, she grit her teeth and bringing down her boot heel, crushing one head; greasy residue exploded outward. The last she pistol whipped into the wall, stomping until it was reduced to ooze and bits of carapace.

Shaking, she slumped against the wall, checking her ammunition while catching her breath. Firing the 10 millimeter had been like getting back on a bike, but it would take time to adjust herself. Not even a full year had passed since she'd announced her pregnancy. She hadn't been allowed much physical activity in that span, and despite having meticulously followed an exercise regimen prior to carrying Shaun, she could already tell her body was in need of reconditioning. And how did those things get into the Vault? What were they, even? She'd get no answers and no closer to reuniting with her boy if she sat here forever, letting exertion get the best of her.

After a long moment spent in silence, she pushed herself up and continued following the hall towards what she thought was the entrance, relieved when her memory served correctly, and slightly more relieved that there weren't any more roaches on the control platform. There were more bodies, all reduced to bones and cartiledge. Perhaps that made the sight of so many dead easier to handle.

The technician at the vault door control panel had something around its wrist that she didn't recognize at first glance. Closer inspection revealed it to be a Pip-boy; dusty, but intact. Picking it up, she closed it around her left forearm, wiping grime from its screen, rubberized interior cushioning self inflating to fit her. The overly cheerful, rounded face of Vault-Tec's mascot appeared with a chime as its software updated, its built in vitals monitor synching with her heart rate. The screen cast a green glow over her as her fingers scrolled the main wheel, taking the personal computer through its paces: data storage, holotape player, area mapping. It still registered a connection with whatever proprietary network that Vault-Tec ran, thankfully, and having access to maps would be immensely helpful. If she made it to the surface.

Anxiously, she worked the door controls until she stumbled onto the right sequence, klaxons ringing overhead. Massive gears and pistons creaked and rumbled to life, shedding layers of dust as the giant, gear shaped seal over the inner Vault rolled away. Floodlights from the elevator shaft filled the room. Choking out an elated, strangled cry, she hurried across the gantry to the elevator platform. It automatically began to ascend. Thoughts of Shaun safely back in her arms ran freely through her mind, a fragile smile forming on her lips as she propelled upwards.

Bright, warm orange light broke over her and she felt the elevator come to a stop with a soft hiss. She stepped forward, shielding her eyes against the red afternoon sun hovering over a blackened treeline. Her heart sank. She fell to her knees, overcome with dread at the alien landscape that greeted her.

Trees, houses...gone. _Silence_.

 ** _The world had ended._**


	2. Codsworth

Sunset was already well underway when she collected herself enough to trek down from the ruined Vault construction site, heading along a well worn trail leading from the twisted chain link fence to where it joined another, older trail, that ran parallel to the river.

Many people, herself and her family included, enjoyed long strolls under a canopy of green leaves on that trail, listening to the birds sing and reconnecting with nature. It had been good therapy for both herself and Nate, after he'd come back from the war, and they were looking forward to taking Shaun once he was old enough. Their little nature preserve also provided a buffer zone between the housing development and the world at large, including the noise of the construction site. Now, the trees were scarcely more than kindling, barren of leaves and birdsong, trunks scarred by debris and flames. There were some things even the giant oak trees couldn't withstand.

Approaching the wooden bridge over the river, she encountered more who had fallen along the path, unable to talk their ways past the guards; luggage in tow, skeletons all. Clothing had begun to meld into the ground. She made a concious effort not to slow down and inspect them all. She'd never make it to her house if she tried to remember who wore what on that day, putting names to corpses. What would be the point, she asked herself, ambling along mechanically.

The nature trail faded and melded with pavement, taking her into the cul de sac where their state of the art, steel sided prefab sat. Slowing a little, she felt her eyes drawn to the nearest house, to several odd, ashen smudges along its exterior; human siloutettes burnt into the siding, mid stride. She felt her stomach turn.

She took a deep breath and headed left, eyes glued to the sidewalk. She still caught small glimpses of the state of the neighborhood; siding squares blasted off buildings, mingling with tree limbs and other debris in the streets. Power lines and lampposts lay haphazardly atop roofs and cars where they'd fallen, caving metal inwards. Neatly manicured lawns now brown and weedy, hedges like matchsticks. But mercifully, she saw no more shadows, or remains.

Coming to her mailbox, she let herself stop and lift her head, ready to see the entire house razed to the ground. She was almost disappointed to see that it had survived largely intact; less to mourn that way. The roof had been damaged as had the siding, the windows were mostly blown out, but the bones of the house seemed sound.

She slid her hand over and around the door frame, stepping inside. The furnishings she and her mother had joyfully chosen for the new house when her pregnancy was announced were all but useless, the modern kitchen now open to the laundry room via a gaping hole in the wall where cabinets once were. Picture frames were shattered, as was the television. For a moment, she stared down the hallway, simultaneously drawn to and repulsed by the door to what once was a nursery. Perhaps later, a hazy thought came.

Her law school diploma was pulp on the water stained carpet, she noted with a reflexive grin. Seven years of her life, poured into that. She was almost certain that the university must be gone, as well. Would anyone in this desolate place even need legal representation, besides? Her father had encouraged her career path, guiding her towards public office as he'd done, after his tour of duty had ended, but now?

Realization made her stop in the middle of the former living room. What had become of her parents? Her friends from law school? Or the base? Or even...even Codsworth?

Her eyes darted around the house, searching for signs of the Mr. Handy robot, expecting to find shrapnel. She checked under the ruined sofa, under the bed frame in the master bedroom, poked at the rubble where walls had blown out, but it was getting quite dark and difficult to tell all the broken things apart. Debris was everywhere. And she'd have to think of herself soon.

Heading back through the front door to try and find some firewood, she saw a dark figure hovering midair and startled, darting back inside.

"Ma'am?" came a hesitant, familiar electronic voice, a faint hum accompanying it as it drew nearer.

She frowned. It couldn't be. "C-Codsworth?" she called, not comfortable stepping out of the shadows just yet.

Instead, the Mr. Handy robot bobbed around the doorframe to confirm her identity, eyes fixing fowards. "As I live and breathe!" he declared, waving two of his three appendages in excitement, oblivious to the irony, "It's...It's really you!"

Breaking into a relieved smile, she stopped short of embracing him. His propulsion system could burn. She opted to pat his head. "Codsworth..! I...what...what happened?" Her smile faded. "What happened to the world?"

"The world, ma'am? Well, besides our geraniums still being the envy of Sactuary Hills, I'm afraid things have been dreadfully dull around here," he reported, but then perked back up. "Things will be so much more exciting with you and your husband back! Er, where is your better half, by the by?" he queried with a twist of his manipulator claw.

She winced, razor pain cutting through her skull.

 ** _screaming, pleading behind the glass as Shaun was torn out of Nate's arms, rifle leveled and sudden shot, crumpling in the chair, and blood, so much blood pouring from his temple and it won't stop_**

White knuckle grip on the dogtags around her neck, she ran her thumb over the punched out lettering. "They...They killed him," she croaked out, the flashback fading into darkness.

Codsworth sighed. "Ma'am, these things you're saying. These...terrible things," he began, trailing off. "I-I believe you need a distraction," he declared, bobbing. "It's been ages since we've had a proper family activity. Checkers? Or...Or perhaps, charades! Shaun does so love that game." When he heard no response, he began to wring his claws. "Is...Is the lad with you?" he asked, eyes tilting.

"He's gone," she snapped, "goddamn it, Codsworth! Someone killed Nate and stole my son!" Immediately embarrassed, she let out a long breath, rubbing her forehead. "I'm sorry," she mumbled in apology. "That was...uncalled for."

"Mm, this is worse than I thought," he said slowly, not taken aback by her outburst in the slightest. "You're suffering from hunger induced paranoia. Not eating properly for 200 years will do that, I'm afraid."

She couldn't believe him. Codsworth had always been somewhat dense, but this was beyond the pale. "You...wait." She frowned. "Did you say 200 years?"

"A bit over 210 actually, ma'am. Give or take a little for the Earth's rotation and some minor dings to the ol' chronometer," he chuckled as she let that sink in.

Had it been that long since the evacuation? God, what had changed since? Did anyone else even survive, or would she and Codsworth wander around until one or the other died, without running into another living soul?

Codsworth kept laughing to himself. "That means you're two centuries late for dinner, ha! Perhaps I can whip you up a snack, ma'am. You must be famished!"

"Codsworth? You're acting a little weird," she said, beginning to worry that he'd taken more damage in that time than just 'some dings to the chronometer'. "What's wrong?"

His laughter gradually turned to wracking sobs. "I...I...Oh, ma'am, it's been just horrible!" he admitted at last, arms waving. "Two centuries with no one to talk to, no one to serve!" He took a deep breath, if he was even capable of it, and continued wailing, "I spent the first ten years trying to keep the floors waxed, but nothing gets out nuclear fallout from vinyl wood. Nothing!" He sniffled. "And don't get me started about the futility of dusting a collapsed house. And the car! The car. How do you polish rust?!" If the sofa were still serviceable, she imagined he may have thrown himself dramatically across it.

"Hey," she whispered, lightly touching his head, "hey now. Stay with me, Codsworth, okay? I need you to focus. Please."

"I'm afraid I don't know anything, ma'am," he moaned apologetically. "The bombs came and all of you left in such a hurry, I thought for certain you and your family were...well, dead."

She smiled a little. "Makes two of us," she sighed.

Codsworth sobered up some more. "Enough feeling sorry for myself. Shall we search the neighborhood together? Young master Shaun may turn up yet," he offered.

"No, Codsworth," she replied softly, "I don't think so. I...could actually really use a place to stay tonight. Maybe in the morning?"

"Oh, heavens! Listen to me prattling on while there's work to be done," he said. "You will of course be staying home tonight? Shall I fetch you anything? Cup of tea, perhaps?"

"Yeah...Yeah, I think I'll stay here. Could you find me something fireproof to build a ring with?" she asked, hopeful. "Cinderblock, maybe?"

"Straight away, ma'am," Codsworth replied, bustling into the dark neighborhood. Soon she couldn't see him at all, and it was a good while before she could make out his rounded chrome frame again, arms loaded with with concrete blocks.

"Great job," she said, helping get the blocks set up on the walkway just outside. A few minutes later, they'd managed a cheerful little fire between the two of them.

She pulled up one of the remaining dining room chairs and warmed her hands, briefly reminiscing of summer camping trips up to Ottawa as a child. She supposed now that more good would come of those months spent in the wilds than simply memories; father liked to hunt and clean his own game, was proud when she showed an interest in learning. Never got past the guilt of taking another life, but if she wanted to eat while the family was on vacation, she had to help dress what he brought back, at least.

Codsworth came back from inside the house, carrying a chipped teacup filled with water and a half empty box of sealed snack cakes. "Here we are, ma'am," he said, singsong, "something to tide you over until breakfast."

She accepted both gratefully, hiding her reaction to the strange, coppery taste of the water. At least it seemed like water. The snack cakes were more powder than cake. These she crushed and funneled into her mouth, washing it down. She could already tell neither would sit well, but he was trying so hard to care for her.

Codsworth must've seen the look on her face. "Trouble, ma'am?"

"Wondered if you'd seen anything dangerous around the neighborhood lately," she lied, although interested to know the answer.

"Oh, just the ususal, ma'am. Pesky neighborhood dogs, mosquitoes," he explained.

"People?" she asked, brows knit.

"Not here, no, ma'am. But perhaps in Concord?" he replied.

"Will I be safe enough to sleep here, do you think?" she asked.

"Absolutely! I shall remain on guard while you rest, ma'am. Leave everything to me," he assured her, hovering close as she climbed down from the chair to curl on the ground.

Sleep did not come easily; not that she'd expected it to, and when it did, it was fraught with images of the Vault, of Sanctuary before the bomb. Of Nate. Of Shaun. Of things she could've done differently leading up to the murder. She should have told both of them that she loved them, more. Spent less time in court. Between flashbacks and worry, and the strange rumblings from her stomach, came perhaps three or four hours of uninterrupted sleep, after which she awoke to a predawn sky of lavender and grey.

Codsworth tended to the embers in the fire ring with a stick, held delicately in one claw. "Ah! You're awake."

A smile twitched across her lips as she stretched. "Yeah...mostly." A dull ache in her side lingered where she'd slept on her holster.

"Shall I get breakfast started then, ma'am?" he asked, sounding more chipper.

She shook her head. "I think I'm good," she said. She hated lying to him, but she needed to be on the move. Shaun was still out there, somewhere. "I could do with directions to Concord, though."


	3. Road to Concord

Better part of her morning spent going over a walking route with and saying goodbye to Codsworth, she headed east before the sun had reached its peak.

It had been difficult to extricate herself from Codsworth's company, at times painful, as he was given to sentiment and recent events made his references to times past all the worse. She'd smiled through it all, though. None of it was his fault, so why should she push her anxiety and anger and responsibility for everything on to him?

No. She insisted he continue to guard the homestead, and he reluctantly complied, sounding as though he knew, too, that his positronic brain wasn't in a shape for travel. Her hand drifted to the 10mm at her side. Much less watching her shoot someone. Her lips drew into a tight line.

Crossing the dilapidated wooden trestle bridge that connected Sanctuary with the main highway, she passed a gore covered corpse. A recent one, his throat torn out, laid alongside the bloated body of a dog, ribs and spinal ridge plainly visible due to lack of fur and emaciation. A long metal pipe jutted from its side. God, the smell...

She subconciously covered her mouth, eyes wide, choking back nausea and hurrying past.

Twenty minutes had passed in silence, fractured asphalt road relatively empty. A chime sounded from her Pip-Boy. Twisting her arm and tapping the console, she saw a new location had been added to her map. A Red Rocket fuel station stood a little ways down the road, rusted out cars abandoned here and there about the parking lot and service lanes; perfect cover for things. It seemed deserted, but she couldn't be sure until she was standing right in front of it. It'd be easy to continue past it, but...there could be something useful laying around.

"Worth a look," she said to herself, readying her gun. This close to the woods, they may have stocked ammunition.

A black and tan shape darted between the fuel pumps. She halted, breath held as she waited for it to reappear.

She didn't have to wait long before a German Shepard popped his head out from around the bumper of a car. He barked at her, stepping forward with ears up, tail low and wagging slowly. Relief washed over her. "Hey boy," she called, smiling. He cocked its head when she extended her hand. "What're you doing out here by yourself, buddy?"

The dog whined softly, tail raised and wag intensifying until his back end shook. He turned in several tight circles before barking again, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth in a goofy smile. But he didn't come to her.

Puzzled by his behavior, she let herself get closer. Her grip tightened on her pistol. Something wasn't right.

A low rumble shook the ground at her feet before erupting, dirty pink masses wriggling out of several holes to flop onto the surface, prompting the Shepard to rush to her side. His bark had turned ferocious, teeth bared, waiting for some sort of cue from her before moving. She was slower to react than she should've been, she'd later tell herself, but she'd never seen creatures like these before; African mole rats gone horribly, horribly wrong. They seemed blind, but also a match for the dog as far as size, and more massive, with grotesque yellow teeth and sharp claws for digging. No wonder he hadn't wanted to cross over to where she'd been.

"Go," she told the dog, drawing her gun up to eye level.

They may have started slow, but once the mole rats had a good reckoning of their targets' positions they were quick, and the open, salivating mouths as they bore down on her were very clearly hostile, if she had wondered at all about their intentions. She had less of a time finding and burying shots in center mass, however, than the roaches. The dog made very short work of what she couldn't drop with one or two bullets, jaws snapping around the throat or the eyes, and thrashing the mole rats until they ceased to move.

She picked off a couple of stragglers, arms beginning to tire from recoil. The dog continued to play with his last kill, grunting as he paraded with a smaller mole rat dangling from his maw, limp and bloodied.

"Think you got him, buddy," she said, laughing. He cocked his head at her again, then spat it out, coming over to sit at her side with tail full tilt, eyes fixed to her gun. She holstered the pistol, and his eyes reaffixed to her face; a telltale gesture that she recognized easily. "Someone's taken you hunting before, haven't they?" she asked, ruffling the fur between his ears and getting a friendly bark in return. "You, uh...want to come with me?" She hunched down, curling her fingers in the ruff of fur around his neck and shoulders, letting herself relax. "Unless you got someone waiting for you. I'll understand."

He whined curiously but stayed put after she'd finished petting him.

She stood up, brushing her jumpsuit off at the knees. "Well. Thanks for backing me up," she sighed. "You're a good boy."

The Shepard watched her walk back to the road. He stood up and barked, tail still. When she didn't turn around, he raced to catch up with her.

Surprised to see him dancing around her legs excitedly, she laughed again. "O-Okay, fine, you can come with me. Guess we gotta stick together, huh?"

He barked an affirmative, lips pulled back in a smile.

Afternoon came before they reached the outskirts of Concord.

She didn't remember Concord being a sprawling metropolis and as they began to see one colonial style house here, another down there, and the landscape gave way to a quaint, historic town, she felt herself reorientating with the layout of the streets. Travel between her development and downtown Concord by car had been a must because of distance, but she'd done a fair bit of shopping on foot at the various mom and pop stores once parked. Question was, did any of those actual buildings still exist? And if so, what would people be most naturally drawn to?

The dog made a soft sound in the back of his throat, watching her expression closely while they walked. She glanced down at him. "I'm okay," she said quietly. Hope bubbled up in her chest for a moment at the prospect of finding Shaun here. "Just...wondering where to start looking, is all."

A loud succession of shots fired echoed down the side street in answer.


	4. Last Minuteman Standing

A firefight was taking place in the center of town. Gunmen clad in mismatched pieces of leather armor and scrap metal traded volleys with a figure perched high on the historical building balcony.

From her hiding spot down the main thoroughfare and around an alley corner, she counted ten of the gunmen. That she could see, anyways. They took cover behind barricades scattered around the square, ducking up and down again so quickly that she couldn't reliably tell how many there really were. Their pieced together armor didn't make them any more easily distinguishable from the junk they used for protection, and their numbers were enough to discourage her from attempting a direct approach to the historical building. But she suspected that's where she needed to go.

The dog pawed at her leg, anxious.

She looked down. "Gonna be okay, buddy," she whispered. "Have to find us another way up there."

He barked. Before she could stop him, the Shepard was off.

"Hey! Wait, no!" she called, sprinting after him, pistol in one hand. She skittered to a frantic halt after several twists and turns in the back alleys, gulping down air. "Where'd you go, boy?" she said to herself, distraught.

Rattling of cans near a corner dumpster further down caught her attention. "Buddy?" she called again, stepping around piles of bricks and trash. Slowing, she held her breath and strained to listen. The firefight in the square had paused and the alley was silent, pulse thrumming in her ears, waiting and watching. Minutes ticked by. It could've been nothing, she decided. Just garbage settling.

Strong arms circled her from behind.

She screamed, arms pinned to her sides, and kicked down as hard as she could, like Nate taught her. Her boot met bare metal. Pain blossomed in her heel and she cried out.

"Made a big mistake comin' here," her attacker chuckled, squeezing her tight as she continued to flail.

"Didn't see her with Garvey's crew," another voice commented. So there were at least two of them. "She's cute."

The voice at her ear laughed, rotten breath like the sun baked corpses along the road earlier. "What, this bitch? Maybe." She closed her eyes, teeth grit. His grip threatened to squeeze the air from her lungs, digging her holster into her kidneys. "Fuckin' Vault dweller, too. Lookit her suit."

Her holster. Gun. The idiot hadn't disarmed her. She tried to calm herself, ignore the pulsing pain in her foot and ribs, waiting while the two gunmen blithely discussed what to do with her. Drawing more attention to herself meant losing her one chance at freedom. Wait. Wait.

"I mean, man...you're gonna have to put her down at some point. Might as well let me cut her first, right? Bleed her a little. Usually keeps 'em from running."

"What, you wanna bleed her out before we even get her back to the boss? Nah, this is perfect. Garvey can't keep up shooting at us if we've got...leverage."

"Well, whatever. Let's head back to...hey. Shit. Shit! It's that fucking dog of his!"

Her captor wheeled around to face his comrade, loosening his vice like hold of her. Beyond the other gunman, down the alley, came the Shepard. Her heart leapt. "Just shoot it, goddamn," he shouted.

The dog flung himself at the man with a vicious snarl, teeth sunk deep into the flesh of his forearm and twisting the limb sharply behind the man's back, digging his heels in as the gunman tried vainly to pull himself free. "Get...him...off of me!" he cried, threatening to tip backwards as the dog continued to pull, shredding his arm.

"Oh, fuck man, I told you," the gunman holding her started, moving to assist him. "I fucking told you! Never trust women or animals, man."

She watched as he kicked at the dog, missing, and again, his boot connecting with the dog's rib in a dull thud. The Shepard let out a painful whine, releasing his hold on the other gunman, who sat on his knees and cradled his ruined arm, cursing. As her attacker moved them closer, she inhaled, holding her breath, and tried to picture him in her mind. His arms, his torso, placement of his legs. Time slowed. There. The knee. She squeezed the trigger.

Two bullets punctured skin, tearing ligament, bringing both of them crashing down to the ground. The larger of the two gunmen, his knee blown open, remained face down for a moment, groaning, unconcerned that she pulled herself free from under him. The second tried grabbing her leg as she passed. She drew her gun to eye level and fired. He crumpled, motionless.

"God...goddamn...you," the other spat, crawling for her. "Gonna...gonna wreck you..."

Adrenaline flooding her system, she aimed for his head, fired, and ran.

The dog barked softly at her, having limped his way down to where the alley met street, nudging her around the corner. They were so close to the historical building now. She could probably run for it without too much trouble, but the dog was in pain.

"Hey! Up here!" the figure she'd seen firing from the balcony earlier called down, desperate. "I've got a group of settlers inside and some of the Raiders are almost through the last door. Please! There should be a laser musket near the steps where...well, it should be there! Help us!" 'Laser musket'? He must've meant the long firearm laying near several of the uniformed dead scattered across the steps.

No reason not to listen to him, she decided, but the dog was already making his way to the door, looking back at her and wagging his tail. The 'Garvey' the raiders who ambushed her had mentioned must be in there, she thought, following and scooping up the musket as she holstered her pistol. With the street so quiet, she took a second to look the musket over, unfamiliar with how it worked, giving the crank a turn. It thrummed with energy. A second turn seemed to intensify the charge. That settled how to operate it, but it'd been a while since she'd held a rifle. She'd give it a shot; had the 10mm as an alternative if the kickback got to be too much. She pushed open the doors and shouldered the musket in the same movement.

Immediately, she was greeted by catcalls and taunts from several more of these so called raiders positioned on the upper levels of the partially collapsed historical building. A bullet grazed her cheek, splintering the wooden door frame. More would follow soon. She brought up her sights, firing on a raider standing bold as could be next to a railing, not expecting to land the shot. She didn't, but he dove for cover as the energy projectile seared into the wall behind him, taking him out of the next round of fire. The stairs to her right were an easy sprint away and the dog was right at her heels. Puffs of dust and bits of debris from raiders' shells followed in her wake, peppering the staircase.

The gallery was quiet as all parties reloaded. She crouched on the landing, rubbing her right shoulder. Recoil on the musket wasn't as horrible as she'd expected but not something she'd prefer to deal with for a long period of time. Figured she was good for two or three more shots, then she'd switch to the pistol. The musket crank whirred as she charged it, far as it'd go, then she ran, keeping her profile low, across the landing towards the room to her right. A spray of bullets crossed the wall as she ducked inside, knocking a portrait to the floor.

She spent a moment catching her breath and studying her surroundings. The room was L-shaped, turning left, lined with broken display cases and mannequins in Revolutionary War garb. Following the wall, she encountered more mannequins dressed as British soldiers and a slightly garbled recording of Boston Tea Party drama, all part of a long disused exhibit. The lighting still worked in several places but flickered intermittently and with so many human forms packed into one space, the room begged to be used for ambush.

Shouting drifted through the door opposite her, and she signaled for the dog to join her in the shadows between a British soldier and revolutionary, staying at her side as she lifted her musket, waiting. Heavy footsteps fell nearby, closer and closer to where they hid. When the raider searched the room, he searched at eye level. He never saw the gun that felled him, sizzling through his grey matter. The Shepard moved first to sniff at the body and she followed close, rolling her shoulder with a grimace. "Good boy," she praised, patting the dog's head as she crept towards the exit.

Another couple of raiders stalked the floor beyond, occasionally threatening either her or, more frequently, the group of civilians that must have taken refuge on the topmost level. From the sounds of things as she picked her way to the next flight of stairs, recharging, the raiders were getting sick of trying to get through whatever defenses the settlers had devised.

"When I get in there, I'm gonna skin every. Last. One of you!"

"C'mon man, they ain't goin' nowhere. We got this new shit to deal with."

"Y'hear that?! I gotta go for a walk, but I'll be back. And then you're all dead!"

She slipped to the corner of the hallway, peeking low. Two large figures decked out in sheet metal and barbwire emerged from a door roughly twenty feet away, headed away from her. Pausing, she took a breath, musket held close to her body, and released it, stepping out. As the raiders were disappearing into another corridor, she lined up her sights and fired. Hot plasma bore through the nearest raider's torso, dropping him to his knees with a startled expression. His partner looked terrified, then outraged, catching sight of her before she could hide behind her corner again. "You bitch!" he raged, slinging his own rifle off his shoulder and charging.

Letting the still glowing musket fall to the floor, she grabbed her pistol. Her shoulder seared with pain, muscles not accustomed to this much wear. She signaled the dog to stay, waiting for the raider to close the gap, then twirled and unloaded the rest of her clip at chest level. The raider collapsed and, not wanting to waste any more time, she jumped over the body and headed for the next exit.

Another L-shaped room opened back into the gallery. From here, she could make out a few more raiders milling about on the bottom floor, searching for signs of her. Pressing her back to the wall, she and the dog silently crossed the open landing to the door beyond.

The Shepard trotted inside, tail wagging enthusiastically as he went to nose under the hand of a man wearing a duster, field hat and meticulously arranged cravat. She followed, surprised to see people. At the far end of the room sat three nervous looking settlers, staring, but none of them pointing a gun in her face. None of them holding a child, either. Shaun had to be someone out here. She just had to wait a little longer.

A sigh escaped her lips. "Guessing you must be Garvey?" she asked, putting her gun away and offering her hand to the man in the duster.

He smiled, shaking her hand. "Yes ma'am, Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen." He tipped his hat back. "I don't know who you are, but your timing was impeccable. Thank you."

"Minutemen?" With that name, she supposed it must be a militia. Her guess was on the mark.

"'Protect the Commonwealth at a minute's notice'," he recited with a nod. "At least, that's the idea." He gestured to the room, adding, "As you can see, things...fell apart. Ghouls in Lexington took us down from 20 to eight, Raiders from eight down to five. Now we're holed up here."

Ghouls? She would have to follow up on that later. "How do we get out of here?"

"Well," he said, nodding towards the man in coveralls typing at a nearby console, "Sturges may have an idea."

Sturges had a thick head of black hair and an even thicker drawl, grinning as he leant back on the desk. "Crashed vertibird up on the roof," he explained, "Old school, pre-war. Well, it looks like one of its passengers left behind a full suit of cherry T-45 power armor. Military issue. Protection with an added bonus." He winked. "You get yourself that armor, you can rip the minigun right off the vertibird, and give the rest of the Raiders down there an express ticket to Hell. You dig?"

She nodded along, not entirely understanding all the lingo Sturges was throwing around. "Will it work?"

Sturges scoffed. "It'll work! Provided we can reactivate the suit." He crossed his arms. "Prolly been out of juice for over a hundred years. What it needs is a core."

Preston must've sensed her confusion. "He means a pre-war FC, a fusion core. High grade, long term nuclear battery used by the military and some private companies."

"Ball shaped?" she asked, something prickling at the back of her mind. "Pointed bit where it interfaces?"

Sturges nodded. "That'd be the one, yeah. Just so happens that according to these logs, there should be one down in the basement, but...it'll be behind a locked terminal."

"Do...you know how to unlock it?" she asked, raising a brow.

"Lady, I fix stuff," Sturges chuckled. "I tinker, but security ain't exactly my forte."

"I could give it a shot," she said, shrugging. "If it'll get all of us out of here."

"We'll stay put," Preston said, adjusting his own laser musket where it slung over a shoulder. "Good luck, ma'am."


	5. Armed and Armored

Finding the basement turned out to be a task in and of itself. A large section of the ground floor had collapsed over time, cutting off the normal route to the terminal but also turning the floor from above into a giant slide. It took careful maneuvering to avoid detection while trying to maintain her balance as she slid down into darkness.

Plaster crunched under her boots, Pip-Boy chirping softly as she turned on the flashlight feature, bathing her and the security gate she sought in greenish light. The terminal was indeed still active and came alive with a few taps on the built in keyboard. She highlighted Options:Doors:Mag-locks and hit enter. The screen flashed a series of randomly generated words, one of which was, according to the instructions, the password. All she had to do was figure out which one fit the bill. Seemed easy enough.

The terminal buzzed angrily.

"Come on," she huffed, tapping the Esc key, "Just...work."

After a moment, the security screen reappeared and she could access the password selection tool again. This time she forced herself to think through every word, closing herself off from the anxiety that suffused her. Tried, anyways. The first three selections came up nil. The fourth panned out and the security gate swung open.

Behind the gate, nestled in the socket of an old generator was a fusion core, just as Sturges said there'd be. She plucked it, slipping it into the pocket of her jumpsuit and climbed out of the hole in the cieling, onto the first floor. It was difficult to keep herself from rushing back up the stairs, but she knew the threat of discovery was still real. It didn't make the ascent back to the safe room seem any less agonizingly long, though.

When she returned to Preston and Sturges with the core, both faces lit up. "Well, all right!" Sturges cheered.

"Good work," Preston said. "Now, to find out if that core really will work. To get to the vertibird, head out this back door, hang a left. Should be access to the rooftop."

She nodded, pocketing the core again. "And you?"

"We'll be providing support from here until the Raiders have dispersed," he offered. "I can't afford to move everyone just yet. Not after what's happened. I'm sure you understand."

"Yeah, I do," she murmured, turning to study the settlers. A man in a stained tshirt and torn up jeans sat on the floor, rocking himself back and forth. A woman about his same age stood near him, telling him to knock it off.

And another woman, older, Bohemian choice of garb and milky quality to her wizened eyes occupied a small sofa near Preston. She gazed up from where she sat with the Shepard across her lap, smiling mysteriously. "Dogmeat brought us someone special," she finally spoke.

"'Dog...meat'?"

The elderly woman nodded. "The dog. That's his name. We think, anyways...answers to it at least. Belongs to himself, you could say."

She smiled a little. "Dogmeat saved my hide out there," she said, reaching over to give him a scritch behind the ear.

"Probably won't be the last time. My name is Murphy, dear. Everyone calls me Mama."

"Well, Mama Murphy, it's nice to meet you. And Dogmeat. And I promise...I'm gonna do what I can to get us out of here safely, okay?"

Mama Murphy laughed. "Of course you will, dear. Go on, get to it. Don't let me slow you down. Got a destiny to fulfill! Just...be careful. There's something...angry...that's out there. It's coming."

She nodded, confused. "I'll be careful," she assured her, smile wavering. "See you later," she said, giving Preston and Sturges a nod before heading down the path laid out for her.

Accessing the rooftop really was as simple as Preston made it sound. The vertibird, a black, vertically enabled plane with two large props, had taken out part of the rooftop. The roof, in turn, provided an easy ramp up to where the plane had embedded itself in the historical building. Both sliding doors had been derailed, leaving the cockpit and hold of the vertibird wide open, floor mounted minigun askew. Inside stood a suit of power armor, its plates stained reddish orange by a century or more of exposure to the elements. If anyone had asked her what model it was, she couldn't say, but it was iconic and common enough sight around the base for her to know of it.

Her husband had worn one, once.

She paused, taking the core from her pocket and staring at it, hard. Her mouth drew into a line, eyes watering. Forming a fist around the core, she squeezed it as tightly as she could, face forming a deep frown. As she'd seen others do, she jammed the core into an open port, center back, grabbed the wheel that engaged entry protocols and slammed it hard left.

She stepped back as the entry hatch opened, armored legs and arms unfolding with a faint creak of metal, pneumatic hiss of air. Mercifully, the pilot was not inside. Reaching up to grip a slightly padded roll bar hung from inside the neck, she pulled herself up and stepped in, popping her head through and wedging her toes into notches cut into the frame. The armor began to close automatically once her weight registered. All she needed to do was spread her arms wide, letting the various hinged plates enclose her and seal her in. Her hands barely filled out the gauntlets, and she could feel her feet shift like wearing a pair of shoes half a size too big, but otherwise, she quickly discovered how to manipulate it. Form following function.

There was a very brief moment where she felt claustrophobic, face covered, breathing erratically, but as her heart rate spiked, a small fan kicked in, and fresh air began rushing over her. The inside of the helmet displayed battlefield information and vitals, reading much like her Pip-Boy, including a readout of armor integrity. It was a little overwhelming, but she could deal with it.

Gunshots echoed through the speakers at her ears. The Raiders had decided to start without her.

Stomping across the vertibird interior to the minigun, she took hold of the topmost grip, releasing the lever on its mount and pulling it free. She twisted her mouth as a bare part of the interior roll bar bit into her, shifting the weight from right hand to left to spare her shoulder. Grabbing the back handle with her right to guide the barrels instead, she carried the massive gun to the edge of the roof, scanning the streets below. Her HUD selected potential targets for her, highlighting the Raiders' forms in yellow and providing a percentage for likely hits. "Useful," she breathed, voice mechanized.

A shot sparked off her chestplate. On the rooftop across the street from her, a raider lowered his gun. She had a 97% chance to hit, so she took it. The minigun spun fast enough to vibrate the armor frame, causing her to clench her teeth. Unprepared for that sort of feedback, she wasn't able to keep him in her targeting reticle, but as she let up on the trigger and the barrels cooled down, she saw the raider was down. Close enough.

"Holy shit, look up there! They've got a fucking suit of power armor!"

Raiders repositioned themselves behind sandbags and barricades with her position in mind, spurred to action by a particularly large, heavily armored man towards the back of their formation. "Ha! Doesn't even matter at this point, we've got numbers. This fight is already over!"

A red flashing icon appeared on her screen, shaped like a grenade, she realized too late, rocked by an explosion off to her side. Another appeared, and another. Reflexively, she jumped out of their paths, falling off the edge of the roof. Her stomach flipped. Three stories down, she landed with a earth shaking boom, cracking the pavement. Rattled, but otherwise unharmed, she slowly began to turn towards the square, hefting the minigun, and marched on the Raiders.

Amidst a hail of bullets and curses, the Raiders scattered as she brought the minigun full bore on their defenses, chewing through wood and flesh. She swept the street methodically, carefully, her face a mask of calm as she mowed them down.

Her HUD indicated movement from her right, just out of her field of view. Assuming it to be Raiders mounting a counter offensive, she didn't bother moving immediately, giving the minigun a chance to cool down. She had them on the run. But when she saw the remaining Raiders run not only away from her, but take a sharp, panicked turn to duck into alleys to her left, she wondered.

The Raider leader and his remaining entourage stood rooted in the middle of the street, gaping upwards. She couldn't help but look, now.

A reptilian creature with razor claws and horns as long as she was tall had finished crawling from a sewer access to tower over her, tail lashing in irritation. It leaned forwards, unleashing a blood curdling, gutteral roar, and promptly rushed forwards, set on the Raiders placed dead center of its vision. It took little time in butchering the men as they screamed, their piecemeal armor providing as much protection now as sheets of paper. The beast moved swiftly from one to the next, slicing from groin to sternum, ripping off legs. Blood pooled around the monster's taloned feet, staining them dark red. It had all happened so swiftly, so barbarically that she remained fixed on it, forgetting to even breathe.

Disinterested with them now that they had ceased to move or make noise, the creature turned its golden eyes to her. The giant lizard snorted, scraping a foot back along the asphalt and lowered onto all fours, eyes narrowing.

She was going to die here, too. Either the horns would run her through, or she'd be trampled and crushed inside the armor like a tin can. Trapped.

Its jaws split open, declaring a challenge.

God, she was going to die here. Shaun would never know who his mother was, who his father was. Nate would never be able to rest in peace, and neither would she.

With another scrape of its claws, the monster surged forwards like a freight train.

Nameless. Fearful. God forsaken.

It stared through her with slitted eyes, radiating malice.

Alone.

The street reverberated under the weight of the beast, muscles rippling beneath scales, the armor frame shaking as it drew near.

 _No. No, I'm not going to die here._

As it reared back, clawed hand poised for a charging swipe at her, her finger found the trigger.

 _I'm going to win._

The minigun whirled with a keening sound, bullets erupting from all four glowing barrels into its exposed belly, multiple close range impacts sending it shuddering backwards, dropping its claw and lowering its head, curling in on itself. Its belly crisscrossed by puncture wounds oozing strange black ichor, swaying a little as it stood on its hind legs, shrieking, causing her ears to ring. She backed up the historical building stairs, clutching her minigun like a protective totem.

 _I'm going to live._

She paused; the grips on the minigun were beginning to radiate heat up into the gauntlets, into the actuators, her fingers. The biggest gun in the world would be useless if it overheated.

The HUD flashed a motion warning.

Her head whipped up as the creature readied itself for another attack. And then it dove for her, snarling, pinkish foam issuing from its mouth, teeth the size of steak knives red with its own blood.

Knitting her brow, she trained her minigun on it again, feeding into the creature's maw and all but stopping it's advance. She continued to empty her rounds into its mouth after it fell on its side, blindly lashing out with its limbs, gasping through a torn windpipe and ragged, ruined snout. Walking up to the monster and planting her boot on one horn, she fired until the trigger clicked and refused to depress, HUD no longer registering her target in a halo of yellow. The minigun whirred to a stop; half black, half orange, barrels smoking.

She stood there, vacant, even after Preston and the others came down from their safe room to gather around her and stare at the beast laying prone beneath her, its features erased by gunfire and spattered across the road.

They spoke to her, but she could not hear them.

* * *

(Thank you so much to everyone following this story! Your follows/favorites/reviews mean a lot to me. This story means a lot to me, too. I'll try to update at least once a day, with chapters averaging at 2000 words. Some may be shorter like Dogmeat's introduction in order to bridge scenes. Thank you again for giving this story a chance, and I'll see you next chapter. Danse is coming soon, I promise!)


	6. Road to Recovery

"Anything yet, Missus Murphy?"

Pleasant heat suffused her forehead and temples, slightly offsetting the dull ache of her shoulder, sharp pain in her wrists and knees. Mouth twisting, she shifted her body to relieve pressure from her lower back and hip. She felt like she'd been thrown at a brick wall.

"No, not...wait. She might be coming 'round."

Her eyes cracked open, hazy figures coming in focus above, the shell of a ruined prefab house surrounding them. A small fire crackled nearby. Mama Murphy was hunched down, dabbing a damp cloth to her face. Codsworth hovered just behind Mama Murphy's shoulder, wringing his claws in concern. "...what?" she rasped.

"Codsworth, go get Preston," Mama Murphy instructed.

"Straightaway, ma'am!"

Mama Murphy turned her attention back to the woman laid out on a cot. "You got guts, kid," she said, smiling, teeth worn from age and smoking. Her face turned serious. "But you gotta be careful with yourself. You ain't a soldier yet."

"How did..?" She narrowed her eyes, laying an arm across her stomach. "The monster...you knew. You knew it was coming."

Mama Murphy nodded, patting her cheek with the warm rag. "Yep. Saw it."

"Saw it?"

"It's the chems, kid," she explained, "Give me the Sight. I can see a bit of what was, what will be, and some times, what is right now. Ain't always clear, but it showed me this place." With a smile, "Showed me you."

With some effort, she pushed herself up to a sitting position on the cot, one hand drifting to rub her head. Black spots swam in her vision. "What's that mean?"

Mama Murphy sighed, putting her cloth aside. "A woman, out of time," she said meaningfully, "out of hope. But all's not lost." Mama Murphy closed her eyes. "I can feel him. Your son's energy. He's alive."

A gasp escaped her lips. "You...You can? You've seen Shaun? Where?"

"I wish I knew, kid, I really do," Mama Murphy said, shoulders slumping. She went to pat the woman's hand. "I can't see your son, but I can feel his...life force, I guess you'd say. His energy. Trust me, he's out there. You just...You need to stay strong, like you been. For your boy. For him."

She locked eyes with the older woman, searching her face and finding only sincerity, empathy, even if her faculties weren't as intact as they once had been. "Thank you," was all she could think of to say.

Mama Murphy gave her another warm smile, releasing her hand. Preston came into view over Mama Murphy's shoulder, striding through the bent steel door frame, concern etched on his features. "Well, here she is," Mama Murphy said, standing and shuffling aside for Preston to take the dining chair. "All in one piece, I think."

"Thank God," Preston said, sitting across from her. "We weren't sure you'd survive, once that deathclaw showed up. I'm...sorry I talked you into all that."

She shook her head. "Don't," she said, grimacing. Hunger gnawed at her insides, stomach protesting loudly.

Mama Murphy mumbled something about soup and wandered outside, leaving them to talk.

"No, I feel I have to apologize," Preston insisted. "I had the interest of my people in mind, but still. It was unfair. We were all lucky you did what you did, back there, though. You've got my gratitude, ma'am."

"Can't remember," she admitted. "It's...hazy. Don't even remember getting here."

Preston chuckled. "Well, the walk to Sanctuary was pretty uneventful, so you're not missing anything there. But what you did out in the square..." He trailed off, shaking his head, incredulous.

She worried at a patch of raw, red skin around her wrist. "I've got nothing," she sighed. Actually, her other wrist was much the same. And the skin on her knuckles was worn. "But we got out, yeah? You and the others, you'll be safe here."

"Trust me, it was a pretty amazing display," he agreed. "I'm just glad you're on our side. And one thing us Minutemen do is help out our friends. So...here." Preston took her hands in his, giving her a small leather pouch. "Couple caps, to get you by. But...you're sure you can't stay with us? I could really use your help."

"I...I can't," she replied quietly, smiling apologetically. "This place...it's too much, right now. Maybe someday."

Preston frowned, scanning her expression. "Why? What's wrong?"

"It's just...strange, being back here," she said, shrugging, toying with the pouch. It made a curious tinkling sound.

"You used to live here?" he pressed.

She regretted saying anything, but there wasn't any point in hiding her past now. "Yeah. Back before the war."

"What do you mean? Before what war?"

She took a deep breath, looking aside. "Codsworth tells me its been over 200 years," she said, swallowing thickly. "I was...frozen, or something, along with my family. Vault 111."

Preston's brows shot up. "Damn...like one of those old pre-war ghouls," he muttered, instantly regretting having made the comparison. He cleared his throat. "I mean, I saw your jumpsuit earlier, I just...figured you were a trader or something, when you showed up. But, you said you were frozen with your family? Did anyone else make it out with you?"

She pursed her lips, tears brimming her eyes. "Someone...um." Brushing her sleeve across her face, "Someone broke into the Vault, when we were uh, sleeping. They did something to the power, the others...m-my husband, they...they didn't make it." Sniffling, she looked back over at him. "They took my son. Shaun. He's...he was a month old."

"Damn. That's...I'm sorry," Preston sighed, at a loss. "I hope you find him. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

If she responded, she knew the floodgates would open. She nodded, smiling, shaking his hand instead.

That night, Mama Murphy attended to her injuries as able with the supplies the settlers had brought with them; topical painkillers, antiseptic. The graze wound below her left eye was likely to scar, but not terribly. Other than scrapes and bruises, she suffered largely from exhaustion, dehydration and hunger. The stew Mama Murphy had helped throw together went a long, long ways, filling her stomach. A sleepy warmth settled over her, and she soon fell asleep.

Sturges was in the attached garage the next morning, prodding the suit of power armor she'd brought back from Concord. He didn't hear her come in, at first, bent down with a welding torch, goggles over his eyes.

She moved closer, raising her voice. "Hey, Sturges!"

His head turned. Shutting off the torch, he raised his goggles and smiled. "Well, if it ain't the survivor! Whatcha got goin' on this mornin', miss?"

"I, uh, wanted to talk to you," she said. "About the power armor. Looks like you're already working on it, though?"

"Weeeell," he drawled out, standing and taking off his heavy gloves, "I'm tryin' ta, anyways. Like I said. I tinker." He sighed. "But now that I look at it, I'm surprised you managed in this rustbucket."

"The HUD worked just fine," she said, brow raised. "Didn't seem like it was in that bad of shape to me."

"It's not the circuitry though, it's the frame," he explained. "Bent somewhere, got out of whack. Maybe when you took that tumble off the roof. Anyways, it ain't closin' up proper."

She frowned. "So it's dead?"

"My sincerest condolences," he chuckled. "But yeah, it's out of commission. Besides, core died right after you walked us here. That beeping noise it made? Ran outta power."

"Oh." She really couldn't picture any of it in her head.

Sturges picked up on her confusion. "You know? Hatch opened up, you fell out?" He thought a moment. "Actually...maybe you don't. Nevermind. Preston said you were exhausted. Don't worry none. You, uh...feelin' alright now, though?"

She shrugged. "Beat. But I'm here, so I can't complain."

He smiled. "Good. That's good. Welp, I should get back to work, see if I can't make this scrap heap sing again for ya. You take it easy."

"Good advice. Think I'll take it."

A few days passed before the aches and pains subsided and she felt up to more than just puttering around the house and checking out the garage. Soon, she started to feel drawn back to the road. Daily chores were a source of frustration, becoming prickly when she made mistakes, and most of her free time was spent at a clearing down by the riverbank, gazing into space. Mama Murphy noticed it first.

"There's more to your destiny," Mama Murphy said one morning, "but even I don't need the Sight to know where you should start lookin' for your boy."

She was in the middle of washing her Vault jumpsuit in a pail with some Abraxo, wearing a faded mechanic's suit she'd found in the garage, hair pulled back into a messy bun. "You do?"

"The great, green jewel of the Commonwealth," Mama Murphy said, gesturing towards the southern horizon, "Diamond City. It's the biggest settlement around."

"Suppose that makes sense," she said to herself. "Thank you. For everything."

"Oh no, dear, thank you." Mama Murphy laughed, winking, "But if you really wanna do me a favor, bring back some chems, will ya?"

Codsworth was, again, difficult to tear herself away from, but she was able to soothe him somewhat by telling him that the settlers needed his unique talents now more than she would on the road. "I shall endeavor to do my best in your absence, ma'am!" he declared.

Preston could see how restless she was getting, too, but he wasn't happy about her wanting to take off. He understood that she needed to move on, though.

"I do wish you'd change your mind," he told her, watching her sort supplies into a knapsack. "But you've got to do you. And we all support you, hundred percent. Don't forget about us."

"Appreciate it," she said, tightening the closure and slinging it over her shoulder. She had packed her Vault suit in favor of the mechanic's jumpsuit, instead, but kept her soft sided boots on. "Might come through again someday, but I need...time. Need to find Shaun."

Preston nodded. "I know. Good luck, friend."

She headed out of Sanctuary around noon, locking in a south by southeasterly route into her Pip-Boy and hanging onto the knapsack straps as she walked. Concord had been a bit of a walk, but Diamond City was going to be a bonafide journey, like that time a couple of her old school friends had tackled the Appalachian Trail and disappeared for a few months. She loved the outdoors, but that was a little extreme even for her, back then. Now?

 _I can do this,_ she thought, coming up to the trestle bridge.

The patter-patter-patter of paws on concrete closed in on her, and she was surprised to see Dogmeat rushing to catch up.

"Feel like walkies, buddy?" she laughed. "It's gonna be a long one. You sure you're up for it?"

Dogmeat barked playfully.

"Well, okay then. Let's get going."

* * *

(Quick note about Mama Murphy! I know she's a little out of character. This one's more lucid and less chem-obsessed or fried than in game. I don't know that I could write her that way, and I'm sorry for taking liberties. I did try to use as much dialogue as I could, rearranged a bit to better fit with my timeline, like I'm gonna do with most everyone. Not every Survivor should have the exact same experience, otherwise that'd be kind of spooky, don't you think? Anyways, thanks again for reading! Next stop: Cambridge Police Station. *throws confetti*)


	7. Sidetracked in Cambridge

According to the Vault-Tec network map, Diamond City occupied a space in Boston. Or, was Boston. Her Pip-Boy estimated the distance between the two settlements at around 20 miles, which she reckoned would take almost three full days on foot. She had packed enough pump drawn water bottles for four, bringing a utility knife and other miscellaneous odds and ends, planning on field dressing whatever she found to eat. It might not be glamorous, but it cut down on carry weight and eliminated spoilage concerns. 'Best of all sauces is hunger', her father would say.

Dogmeat helped immensely in that regard, alerting her to game and driving it towards where she waited. Smaller mammals such as squirrel and mole rat, although a bit of a headache to track if submerged, were plentiful along the trail. Between the two of them, there was never enough roasted meat left over to attract predators.

Camping proved a bit of a mixed bag. The tarp she'd brought provided protection from rain, but not insects. Large insects, especially, or high winds common to the open stretches of road. Plenty of fallen branches to kindle a fire, too, but without something more substantial than plastic sheeting and rope to shield it in at least one direction, they had a habit of winking out. It was frustrating, but things could've gone more poorly for them the first two nights on their own in the wastes.

Her main concern was random encounters.

After dousing the previous night's campfire with some of the water and stirring the ashes, she got her supplies packed up and continued down the road, squinting at her Pip-Boy screen in the morning sun. They were approaching a cluster of pre-war settlements, with another couple of miles to go before they'd hit the outskirts of old Boston and, hopefully, find Diamond City. With luck, someone may even have seen her boy. But to get there, they had to pass Lexington and Cambridge, fairly dense industrial and urban areas. She'd prefer not to deal with Raiders, so she planned to stick with the highway curving near, but not through, either town.

Loosening a knot in her neck, she briefly entertained an image of Shaun, tucked into his crib. Perhaps in the future, she could refurbish it. Rebuild. It would never be like home, but wherever they'd settle down would almost be as good.

If he was even really alive. Who knew what Mama Murphy had been on the other night? Did she really buy into that hoodoo? He might've been killed intentionally, or accidentally. The Commonwealth was dangerous. Everything was dangerous. She'd be lucky survive herself.

A soft bark at her knees drew her away from the dark thoughts.

"Hey buddy," she said quietly, stroking Dogmeat's nearest ear. "Sorry for zoning out. I just..." She sighed, coming to a stop. "It still hurts. Bad."

Dogmeat's tail slowed to a stop, his head tilted curiously.

Scrubbing her hand over her face, she laughed at herself. "And now I'm talking to the dog." Hiking up her knapsack straps, she shook her head. "C'mon, doc, let's keep on going. Before I start telling you about my mother."

He bounded enthusiastically beside her as they headed under the ruins of a titanic overpass. Boston in her day had reached a size where they needed six lanes in either direction just to keep traffic flowing, and the graceful arcs of steel and concrete set against the sky, especially at night, were works of art and engineering. It was disconcerting to see them in such disrepair; broken, bleached vertebrae of a dead metropolis.

As they came out the other side, they began to see more cars and buses left adrift, some still cradling their original occupants. Small bits of loose debris caught in the breeze made strange noises as they interacted with these wrecks, noises that set her slightly on edge. This area was pretty open and neither she or her companion had noticed anyone thus far, but the vehicles could possibly hide something. Or someone.

When her Pip-Boy began to buzz static, she nearly jumped atop the overpass.

Hand shaking, she quickly tried to adjust the wheel and press buttons, unsure of how the static began or how to turn it off, and panicked. If she could hear it, others could hear it. Last on the menu was the Radio function. She felt like an idiot for not figuring it out straight away, but she knew now that the Pip-Boy came equipped to pick up radio signals. Helpful, just not when trying to be quiet.

The screen offered her several choices to tune in to. There was a Classical station that merited further research, oldies streaming live from Diamond City, and something else. A military frequency; faint, but originating close enough to where they were now that the Pip-Boy's software had decided to hone in on it.

She peered straight ahead from where she stood. A broken stoplight marked the entrance to the ruins of Cambridge, roughly the same distance away as the signal.

"No," she muttered to herself, dropping her arm to her side. "No, we're not going. Not worth it." Continuing to walk with Dogmeat at her side, her kept her thumbs wrapped around the straps of her pack, stubbornly avoiding looking towards Cambridge.

Her Pip-Boy continued to hiss and pop. Just a little static. She could live with that while they passed this far out from civilization.

It wasn't until they were parallel with Cambridge that Dogmeat sat down, whining pitifully. He and his sensitive ears had had enough of this nonsense.

A moment later, she noticed she was alone, and turned back to face him. "Oh, come on, I'm sure it's nothing. It'll go away if we just keep g-"

"Automated message repeating: this is Scribe Haylen with reconnaisance squad Gladius, to any unit in transmission range," a female voice broke through the white noise, silencing her argument. She brought her Pip-Boy close to her chest, listening intently. "Our unit has sustained casualties and we're running low on supplies. We're requesting support or evac from our position, at Cambridge Police Station."

Lowering her arm as the message began again, she took another look at the street off to her right. From where she was, it seemed to be the major thoroughfare, with broad walkways on either side and as the sun crept towards high noon, few places to hide. What were they pinned down by? Perhaps they'd already dealt with the threat and hadn't updated the message. Helping the woman on the other end of the transmission might be easy; maybe get supplies out of the deal. Diamond City didn't equal the end of needing supplies.

Or they could be dead. It could also be a trap.

Minutes passed while she fought internally. Finally, she groaned. "Fine. We'll go look," she told Dogmeat, who stood and wagged. She turned the volume on her Pip-Boy down. "But for the record, I thought this was a bad idea."

They crossed a field of yellowish brown grass to the crumbling intersection, her pistol drawn up to her chest. Dogmeat alerted her to something with a plaintive sound similar to how a puppy would cry. She halted, watching him sniff the ground ahead and slow to a crawl as he neared a small pile of rubble. He laid down just before it, tail wagging furiously, and looked back at her with concern. This was a new behavior.

Frowning, she drew near to where he'd stopped. A flattened plastic and metal disc painted yellow and green blinked on the road ahead, obscured by the debris from any other angle. The block lettering on the device was easy enough to read. "Oh...God," she breathed, taking a step back as Dogmeat barked. "Y-Yeah, good catch, buddy. You're really something." She nodded to her right. "Stick to the other side of the street. Keep your...uh, nose peeled."

He followed dutifully behind her as she gave the mine a wide berth, swinging to the opposite row of buildings and continuing to take things nice and slow through main street Cambridge. Her Pip-Boy indicated they were still headed in the right direction and would make contact in another hundred feet or so. Everything in town certainly seemed quiet enough despite the urgent nature of the transmission.

They began to climb a rise. At its peak, a figure wearing tattered clothing stood, swaying slightly. It wore no armor; dazed, perhaps, but seemingly unarmed.

"H-Hello?" she called when the man didn't register their presence.

It spun around lazily.

"What the hell," she muttered, eyes widening.

Skin in as good of a shape as the shirt and slacks it wore, it bared its teeth at her, gums receded. It let out a raspy sort of wail, stumbling to orient its feet towards her. It began to shamble. Quickly.

Dogmeat growled defensively at her side, awaiting orders. She put a round in its torso with almost no effect, other than make it mad.

And maybe also draw out its friends.

"This way!" she cried, turning on her heel and running back towards the intersection, moans of animated corpses following close behind. Dogmeat barked from next to her as a reminder as they neared the mine. She remembered. She was banking on it.

Her strategy was soon rewarded. Whatever they were, they weren't cognizant of the explosive laying in the street, and as she and Dogmeat entered the grassy field, she heard it detonate. A series of distant but heavy, wet slapping sounds followed. For the first time in history, it rained red in Cambridge.

They headed back to where they'd left off, picking their way through limbs and entrails, stopping so she could finish off whatever the mine hadn't completely blown apart. She hurried up the hill, keeping her pistol drawn. A burst of gunfire drew her attention, and she followed the echo down a side alley, along chain link fence, towards a remarkably intact brick building, the front of which was walled in with pieces of scrap metal and wood.

Through the crude but sturdy double gate she counted a dozen or more of those withered humanoid creatures, spindly arms outstretched towards a black power armor clad defender stationed behind several metallic barriers. He wielded a gun unlike any she'd seen, firing searing bolts through the monsters that besieged him at an amazing pace. It was clear, though, that the firepower between him and his ally at the top of the station steps was not coming fast enough to cut through this round before it overtook them, and the haunting wails in the distance meant more were on their way.

She whistled. With a frenzied growl, Dogmeat charged for the nearest creature and snapped his jaws around its leg, throwing his weight into bringing it down. Behind him, she lined up her sights and buried a couple of rounds into the next, and the one in front of that, taking full advantage of their singular goal; to get to him. Her shots had given her away to the humans, though.

The man in power armor snapped his head towards her, startled by her presence. His gaze was intense, almost a glare, as if she were trespassing. He raised his left hand, closing it in a fist at pauldron height, shaking two fingers towards her position, then concentrated his efforts on firing again, expression grim. The smaller figure in military fatigues glanced towards her, nodding in acknowledgement. Wordlessly, they all chipped away at the shriveled, writhing monsters encroaching on their position.

The central gate, too, was wide open. As a frenzied chorus rose in intensity just beyond, his eyes darted to hers again. "Up the steps, now!" he ordered, sighting his gun.

She headed further in, dropping a straggler as she stepped around the inner barricade and ascended the first few steps backwards. Dogmeat retreated to the barricade as well, growling and snapping aggressively, his body low to the ground and bristling as he moved to join her on the steps.

Another soldier slumped against the brick behind her, clutching at his side, fabric stained dark red. Beside him, the woman she'd seen firing earlier took a quick break to fish a syringe from one of her vest pouches, uncapping the needle, and plunged it into his neck. He cried out, then let his head hit the wall, breathing shallow.

She must've been staring. The female soldier nodded at her, raising her firearm again, and they resumed their support.

Ghoulish humanoids trickled through the center gate, startling into a frightful, crazed sprint as they met with gunfire. Two, then three at the spearhead down, the others overtaking and trampling their bodies, breaking as a wave on the barricade and met with the stock of the armored soldier's rifle, crushing and caving in skulls. The last few skittered up and over the fallen, piled high enough to gain them purchase over the top, gnashing and striking against him. He began to ascend the steps, barrel tilted downwards, hitting every mark, leaving a trail of corpses sprawled in his wake as he joined them near the station doors.

Assessing the area below and having found it secure for the moment, he stored his weapon at his side, turning to stare down at her. In his power armor, he had a good foot and a half or more over her, making him even more imposing up close, voice commanding. "We appreciate the assistance, civilian," he said curtly, "but what's your business here?" His dark eyes weren't unkind, she decided, but besides the armor and laser rifle he carried, his serious demeanor cautioned her against being anything but transparent when responding.

"I'm just...was, on my way by, and..." she held her Pip-Boy up for him to see. "Your message. I came as soon as I heard."

His eyebrow quirked, glancing over to where the female soldier, a field medic, tended to their wounded comrade. "Glad to hear it," he said. "Where are you from?"

"I'm from...from a Vault," she said, suddenly nervous. "Vault 111, couple days northwest of here."

He went from guarded to impressed at that. "You're a Vault dweller?" he marveled, examining her, as if expecting to find some telltale outer sign. "Most people wouldn't admit to such a thing. I appreciate your honesty." Letting out a sigh, his tone softened somewhat. "If I appear suspicious," he offered, "it's because our mission here has been difficult. From the moment we arrived in the Commonwealth, we've been under constant fire." He paused, weighing something mentally. "If you want continue pitching in, we could an extra gun on our side."

She, too, took a moment to think, surprised she was even considering taking him up on it. "Was headed to Diamond City," she said finally. "Someone I have to find there. But...I don't...I don't know anything about you or your mission. Who are you? What military are you with?"

"Paladin Danse, Brotherhood of Steel," he replied easily, "and over there are Scribe Haylen and Knight Rhys. We're on recon duty, but with Rhys injured, I'm down another man and our stockpile of supplies is running low."

"Do you have a way to contact your superiors?" she asked.

His expression turned serious again. "We've been trying to send a distress call, but the signal's too weak to reach them."

"Sir, if I may?" Haylen interjected.

He nodded. "Proceed, Haylen."

"The modifications I've made to the station's own transmitter aren't enough on their own," Haylen said. "It's obviously incapable of the range we need it to have. But, according to my research, there should be a suitable match at a pre-war aeronautics company called ArcJet Systems. A deep range transmitter. Sir."

Danse nodded his approval. "Thank you, Haylen. So, we infiltrate the ArcJet facility, locate and recover the transmitter, bring it back for Haylen to begin her work." He looked back down at her. "What do you say?"

She glanced back at Haylen, who was busy helping get Rhys to his feet. His face contorted as he limped along with Haylen into the station. Raising her head again to Danse, "You're sure it'll be enough to get your people out of here?" she asked, concerned.

"Scribe Haylen is rarely wrong," Danse assured her.

She shrugged, shaking her head. This didn't sound like it'd take long, and she couldn't stomach the thought of a soldier dying for lack of a full medical facility. "Then I guess I'm in."

The corners of his mouth lifted. "Outstanding."

* * *

(Aaaahhh, writing action scenes is not easy. I hope to get better as things progress. But we're here! I'm excited to be writing for Danse and hope the lack of protagonist name isn't becoming repetitive. One is coming, but it's...silly. I'd hoped to build up to her receiving it, so when I reveal the terribly silly name I gave my Survivor in my playthrough, it might not be so terribly silly. Give her a chance to grow into it. (Actually there's sort of a giveaway in the summary, now that I look at it.)

Anyways! Thank you for reading! And it looks like the stats are borked for this story, so if you feel inclined to leave a review or write me a note to let me know how things are going, that would be awesome!)


	8. Call to Arms

The interior of the Cambridge police station remained as sound as the exterior. Certain nonessential areas had suffered partial collapse, but the front desk and adjoining break room turned bunkhouse were well preserved, electricity still running. Remarkably organized, too, she noted. A filing cabinet and mail cubby behind the receptionist's chair now served to store various kinds of ammunition. A table and set of chairs had been cleaned, hotplate for coffee and mugs set out. Personal gunny sacks lined neatly against a blank wall, out of the way of foot traffic. Not much had changed in the military, it seemed.

Scribe Haylen treated Knight Rhys at a desk; medical supplies arranged in logical order. They traded good natured jabs as she administered another dose of painkillers.

Rhys was alert, but still pale, voice hoarse. "What's the prognosis?" he asked, "Gonna take me out back and shoot me?"

A brief shadow passed over Haylen's lightly freckled face. "Oh, I don't know," she sighed, pressing gauze to the inside of his elbow. "The broken ribs and lacerations aren't a problem, but I'm afraid your attitude is terminal." When Rhys hacked out a laugh, she smiled, unzipping his padded flight suit to the waist and grabbing a roll of tape. "Just quit squirming so I can get you bandaged up and we'll go from there."

No, not much had changed at all. The camraderie brought a faint smile to her lips, barbs touching on memories of her own father and mother, an enlisted nurse. Mother's tour hadn't lasted as long as his thanks to pregancy, but civilian life hadn't much changed their interactions. Father remained fairly regimented and may have come off to casual acquaintances as stiff or even possibly abusive, but he was neither, and mother gave as good of verbal cut downs as she got. Even Nate could banter.

Paladin Danse interrupted her thoughts before they drifted much further towards darkness. "Time to prove your worth, civilian," he said, heading to the front desk. His power armor shook the floor with every step. "Help yourself to whatever you need. It's imperative that we get that recovery started."

Haylen looked up from binding Rhys' torso. "There's a spare set of body armor here, sir," she called to Danse, indicating the body armor near Rhys' feet.

Rhys glowered at her unwelcome intrusion throughout the process of adjusting the straps to fit her smaller frame, muttering out, "Better not be a scratch on it when you get back," as Haylen tied off his bandages and helped him towards one of the makeshift beds.

"R-Right. I'll be careful." She figured he was upset about being kept out of the action, but didn't think he'd be so bitter towards her, personally, when she thought she was being clear about helping out. Haylen turned her face, rolling her eyes. It was nice to see of them was human, at least.

Paladin Danse led her outside after she'd suited up and grabbed as many rounds as would fit in her pockets, advising her to stay with him. "Try not to lag behind," he said without derision, pulling on his helmet. His voice filtered through the exterior speakers. "ArcJet is a short hike to the West. If we take the old highway, we should be able to avoid the larger packs of feral ghouls infesting Cambridge and preserve supplies. Our objective is the transmitter, so you are not to engage in fire with anything unless directed. Understood?"

Her reply was crisp. "Affirmative, sir."

He paused. "Good. We'll take this alley. Follow me."

She whistled for Dogmeat to join her. The dog got up from where he'd been napping on the steps, rushing to catch up with them. He trotted beside her for the first few minutes as they hit the edge of town. When asphalt yielded to grassy scrub brush, the dog began to fall in step with Paladin Danse. Natural leader, she supposed, walking through the grass crushed by the power armor.

After the first fifteen minutes of trailing along after them in silence, she decided she'd had enough. Hustling to catch up with his much longer stride, she walked alongside Danse for a while. If he noticed, he said nothing, armored footfalls echoing off the road.

She cleared her throat. "So, is this the first time you've been able to leave the station?" she offered.

"Traveling this far from the police station is a risk," he replied, facing forward, "an exception. Getting that transmitter up and running is now our priority."

"If it was down to you three, why stay there? Why not have tried to retreat?" she asked, mildly curious. Rhys' injuries were an obvious setback.

Danse sounded prickly. "If it was up to me, I'd relocate my team, but Scribe Haylen detected some disturbing energy readings in the area that need to be investigated."

"Energy readings?"

"Yes. We don't know much about them, except that they're short lived and broadcast on a frequency only obtainable with sophisticated technology. We're concerned that whoever or whatever is creating those energy readings might be a potential threat, so it's become our responsibility to investigate," he explained.

She made a mental note to ask him more about what the Brotherhood of Steel's mission entailed, later, once things were settled down, and nodded as he finished speaking.

It surprised her when he broke the silence again, a minute later. "My recon team isn't the first to visit the Commonwealth," he said, glancing over and down at her. "Two other teams over the last seven years have been sent here by the Brotherhood to gather technology."

"And they fared better than you have?" she asked, grateful for conversation.

"The first team's mission was a huge success," he agreed. "They came back with crates full of pre-war artifacts and historical documents, but the second wasn't so fortunate. Shortly after they arrived, we lost contact with them. They haven't been heard from since."

She frowned. "It's that dangerous, even with how well equipped the Brotherhood sounds?" What would it be like, then, for someone like herself to try and carve out an existence out there?

"Is," Danse corrected. "And as for my team, we've been a target from the moment we arrived. I've lost four good men to this godforsaken wasteland."

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said quietly.

"Thank you," he said after a moment. He turned to study her again. "Despite our setbacks," he said slowly, determined, "I don't intend to give up and head home...or end up missing." Another long minute of silence passed between them before he nodded over his shoulder. "Should keep checking your six for hostiles."

The dismissal wasn't personal, she knew. "Yes sir," she said, shortening her stride and falling back.

They wouldn't be alone for long. A band of Raiders waited behind abandoned vehicles, beneath another ruined overpass ahead. The Raiders didn't wait to open fire; not with a Brotherhood Paladin on the horizon.

Danse shouted the order to return fire. She took up a position behind a car and began supporting him. Dogmeat circled around from the side of the Raider encampment and caught their sniper unawares. The skirmish was over in short order, no small thanks to superior equipment and cooler heads, and the Raider's stashed supplies yielded several stims. Haylen would definitely benefit from those. Though he said nothing, she thought the nod from the Brotherhood solider before they continued was one of approval. At least, none of them had been injured before their actual mission had started.

Following a branch leading off the highway, they spotted an industrial complex, stained orange with oxidation. The grounds must once have been impressive; a broad set of steps led up to a small plaza with areas for employees and guests to relax, offering nothing in the way of active defenses to keep intruders out of the main building. Declaring the area secure, Danse moved towards the front doors.

"Stay," she told Dogmeat just outside, scratching behind his ear. "This shouldn't take long." He whined, lowering onto his belly, nose between paws, and looked up at her sadly.

Danse waited for her to catch up and confirm she was ready, before raising his gun and shouldering open the door.

In contrast to the police station, the ArcJet lobby was in poor shape. Staircases had weakened and structurally failed over time. Vending machines and computer terminals had been overturned and hastily looted for components. Documents had been scattered over the floor, stained beyond reading. Half the lights were either dead or disconnected.

She brought out her gun, keeping it to one side as they swept cautiously through the lobby. Her eye caught a promotional poster on the wall, announcing the unveiling of a new space flight project, depicting a man planting a flag on a comically small Mars, and she found herself stopping to read it.

Paladin Danse's mechanized voice over her shoulder startled her. "It was corporations like this that put the last nail in the coffin for mankind," he said, "exploiting technology for their own gains and pocketing the cash, ignoring the damage they'd done." When she turned, he added, "That's why the Brotherhood is here."

"To keep people from developing tech?" she asked, brows coming together.

"To ensure that people use it responsibly," he replied, "to help raise one another up rather than using it to oppress. The Brotherhood collects and preserves pre-war technology, sharing it among civilians as needed, improving their livelihood and protecting them against threat of another holocaust. Even the smallest of pieces can make a enormous difference for others if properly collected and studied. It wouldn't do humanity any favors if someone possessively hoards it, even if their intentions are peaceful."

She tilted her head, bringing up her left forearm. "Why haven't you tried to confiscate this?" she asked.

Danse shifted his weight. "Because I was certain our Scribes already have a number of different Pip-boy models, and relieving you of yours would only serve to agitate you, not gain any new information," he said. "Harrassing local civilians is not my job. Now, let's keep moving."

Continuing their search in the adjoining room, they came upon a row of empty cylindrical docking bays that once contained robotic security units, having been reduced to almost unrecognizable scrap on the floor.

"Look at these wrecks," Danse muttered, nudging a clawed hand with his boot.

"Protectrons," she said to herself, frowning at the disarray of broken and dismembered bipedal sentries, earning a side glance from him. "But...isn't this what we want?"

"Negative. Four Protectron units were neutralized without a single spent ammunition casing or drop of blood in sight. Evidence points to one possible scenario: these robots were assaulted by Institute synths."

Opening her mouth, she thought better of asking him for an explanation, and closed it again, looking down at her feet. So much of what people said in this time seemed beyond comprehension that she felt all but useless.

"Eyes up," he said, snapping her to attention. "They may still be here. This way." Danse remained on point into what appeared to have been an office, filled with beaten desks and computers in various states of repair, and another, larger room that contained a number of tall computer towers and switchboards, used perhaps for running diagnostics. The set of wide, sliding doors leading into the next area refused to budge for him. "Looks like a dead end. See if you can find a way to get that open."

She managed not to groan. "Yes, sir," she said, able to locate a terminal at a workstation. Bringing up the power and clicking past an notice regarding monthly password changes, she found and wrestled successfully with the password selection screen, much to her relief. "We're through."

The mag-locks opened with a click. "Nice work," Danse said, heading towards the exit as the doors parted, "let's get m-" Blue bolts of energy shot past him from the room beyond, melting holes in one of the towers. He stepped to the wall, returning fire, as she reflexively ducked down behind the terminal. "Synths! Take them out!" he ordered.

Pistol in both hands, she peeked around the console. A robot, a lifelike robot, with pale skin stretched over its limbs and head, advanced on Danse with several more of its compatriots at its heels, carrying odd, white firearms that looked to be plastic. The damage they dealt was serious enough despite how they looked. She aimed for the second in line, as the lead synth began to engage Danse in close quarters combat. He swatted the synth's gun from its hands, knocking it to the floor with his rifle in the next motion, as the synth next to it sank to its knees, circuitry from inside its head sparking as it complained of a critical systems failure. It would almost be funny if they weren't programmed to kill.

Paladin Danse shot through the next synth blocking his path, stepping through the doorway and firing on the remaining two nearby. She shifted to the wall Danse had occupied just before, lodging a round in one of the synth's hip servos. Off balance, it fell over with a deadpan expression of surprise. Danse, finishing off its friend, turned to look down where the last one lay, attempting to crawl past him. He fired into its torso, stilling it.

"Damn synths have compromised most of the facility," he said as she joined him, pointing out a gaping hole blown into the concrete and rebar wall opposite, a tunnel dug just behind it. After checking the elevator and finding it to have been shut down, they opted to follow the synth trail and found a shortcut to the engine chamber, coming out onto a steel catwalk.

Four stories deep, dimly lit, housing a vertically mounted, thirty foot long rocket engine still shiny and chrome as the day it was assembled, the engine chamber seemed to drop away from her feet into nothingness.

"Look at this place," she heard Danse remark in awe. "Scribes would have a field day in here." She wished she could've seen his expression. "This place is a mess, but I still see a few pieces of salvage that the Brotherhood might be interested in. After we're done here I'll have to mark this place for sweep and retrieve."

"Any thoughts on where the transmitter actually is in all of this?" she asked as he stepped down the stairs at the end of the walkway. He shook the metal frame in a way that made her nervous, but followed him, descending into darkness.

"Building blueprints Haylen gave me showed a control room at the top of the core," he said, turning his head. "We'll have to keep heading down for now and find a way to get the facility's power back online, gain access to the elevators," he added, reaching up to turn on the flashlight mounted to his helmet. "Watch your footing here." With Danse's light guiding her, she carefully found each step, mindful to keep her hands on the rails. The last thing they needed was for her to go getting herself thrown off a flight of stairs. He'd be fine, she knew, but she wasn't as sturdy.

Danse waited at the bottom of the stairs until she stepped onto the ground beneath the rocket engine's exhaust port, then began to scout out the chamber. "There has to be a control for the power here, somewhere," he said, gesturing towards a set of heavy doors across from them, "most likely inside that maintenance area. Go check it out. I'll remain here and watch our backs."

"Yes, sir," she said, hurrying inside.

The maintenance area housed a control panel, mounted beneath a thick observation window, and several massive generators attached to a computer terminal. Power had switched at some point in ArcJet's history to emergency levels, cutting off what systems and operations the network deemed non-critical. Elevators must be one of them. Highlighting Power: Start Auxiliary Generators and pressing Accept, she heard the generators in the back of the room rumble to life. From a speaker near the cieling, a sedate voice announced the restoration of engine core power.

Ready to deliver the news, she stopped cold as she passed the observation window, her heart dropping into the pit of her stomach. Danse was engaged in a firefight with an army of synths and being driven back into a wall, with more synths crawling over and down the scaffolding like spiders.

"Thermal engine fueled, primed and standing by for your command," the voice continued from the speaker, echoing through the maintenance doors seconds later.

The speakers are connected, she realized, eyes snapping down to scan the control panel under the window. "He can hear it," she said to herself, hand hovering over a large, flat red button, dead center of the panel. If there was a countdown before ignition, and there would be, she was sure of it, Danse could get inside the blast doors in time.

He misfired. A synth grappled with his gun. Another lined up to fire.

She squeezed her eyes shut and slammed her palm over the button.

"Command accepted. Commencing five second countdown," the speakers announced. "Five."

Through the glass, she could see Danse lift his head towards her, rolling his shoulder to toss a synth from where it clung to his pauldron. He heard it. She murmured, "Come on," like a mantra as he struggled to move under the weight of several other synths who fought for purchase on and around his power armor, dragging him back.

"Four."

She regretted not having gone out there to help. But what good would just her one pistol have really done? Catching movement from the entrance out of the corner of her eye, she turned and gaped; the blast doors were already closing.

"Three."

"Come on!" she shouted, brows screwed together in worry and frustration, beating her fists on the control panel. One of these other buttons had to do something, had to stop the doors or abort ignition, something to buy time for Danse to make it, they had to. He had to. She couldn't lose someone else this soon.

"Two."

Nothing responded.

"One."

She watched through the glass, palms spread, as Danse sank to one knee within feet of the doors, incapacitated by and barely visible through a virtual wall of pale robotic bodies. Tears coursed down her cheeks. She'd killed him. She was a coward, and she'd killed him.

"Ignition."

A gout of blue and white flame issued from the engine, shaking the foundation, engine housing rumbling like an earthquake. And with a flash, her vision of Danse obscured.


	9. Call to Arms 2

(Ooh, notes up top this time.

Okay, first, I love the reviews! Thank you so much guys. I'm not writing this story for reviews, but with the way my brain works, silence translates in my head into hate or avoidance (social anxiety and depression, yay) and while that's not going to stop me from being creative ever, ever again, it does discourage me. Not just with working on something, either. So, yes, since the stats are messed up, I don't have a great way of telling how I'm doing and if I should change anything. Other writers might not have the same issues, and that's wonderful, but I'm not as lucky. I really, really appreciate feedback. Really.

Second thing! My posts might space out more as we get into the main missions, especially the arc with Piper and Valentine coming up soon. There's a ton of dialogue and possible scenes to explore in this game, period. I probably won't feature characters/scenarios that I didn't interact with in my game (MacCready, Cait, Strong, and X6 fans, I'm sorry). Maybe in a side story, but not as part of the main narrative. However, if you want to suggest a side quest or other ideas, shoot me a note. I'll take a look and see if it'll fit in with my outline. But bear with me if I only post once in a day, or once in two days, because some are easier for me to function on than others. (Go into your game and cuddle Danse in the meantime. He needs it.)

Third, Dr. Kitten. Yes. Yes, that's what my SS is named. She (and Max, RIP, their Shaun turned out gorgeous) started with me tinkering in the creator, having a chuckle, but she didn't look too bad in game and next thing I knew she was a level 40 Paladin with a giant axe, cleaving deathclaws in twain. She may not sport a shaved head and grease paint anymore, but that's how she started. After playing through the BoS and main quests, she's her own beast. I knew I'd need to justify the name in a story, though. That's part of why we've started at the beginning rather than skipping right to the Prydwen. I want it to be more than a reference and I hope the build up and explanation I've got ready will be believable. Well. As much as any of this is.

Sorry for the long notes section, guys. Again, it means a lot to just have you here, and it means a lot to hear from you. You can also keep up with me and/or story progress on my tumblr of the same name. Whatever works.

Until later, Steel be with you.)

* * *

Conscription was never a guaranteed success, especially true for the Eastern chapter. In Elder Lyons' day, the Brotherhood of Steel based in the ruins of the nation's capitol struggled to maintain a full standing force of trained Knights and Scribes. What few he gathered were loyal, and talented, but loyalty and talent alone did not translate directly into a successful campaign. Loyalty could, in certain situations, even prove more dangerous than pride or greed among soldiers.

Paladin Danse had experienced that first hand, during the confusion that followed in the wake of Elder Lyon's death. His daughter and heir, Sara, one of the Brotherhood's best and brightest, had been killed in action, leaving the council scrambling to replace not one, but two leaders, and the council couldn't agree on who best fit in that gap. It took years before they sought out Arthur Maxson, a descendant of the Brotherhood's original founder, Roger Maxson. Arguably, he was too young to carry such responsibility, too green, but Arthur proved his skeptics wrong. Under his leadership, the Eastern Brotherhood not only survived, but thrived.

Not everyone had agreed with his methods, however. Arthur Maxson believed strongly in the Brotherhood's right to control technology and use it to their sole discretion, and less in the duty to protect and serve civilians. He ordered much of what Elder Lyons put in place, undone.

Danse had chosen not to abandon his post in retaliation, as many others had. The Brotherhood's mission and place in the wasteland was too important, too close to home for him to walk away from, and Elder Maxson's vision was strong. Numbers were up thanks to new policies, but retainment was still an issue. Not everyone shared the Brotherhood's values.

That's why this Vault dweller had taken him aback, at first. Unlike others his team had encountered in the Commonwealth, she had offered her help and demanded nothing in exchange. She shared his concern for his charges. She listened to orders, even if she hadn't always maintained eye contact with him; no complaints, no back talk, just prompt compliance. Knight Rhys didn't always have the best attitude. She still deferred to him out of apparent respect for order.

 _Creator willing, she might be persuaded to stay_ , he thought, watching her olive clad form dart into the maintenance room. He had almost broached the subject as they were approaching the ArcJet complex, but thought better of it. _No, it has to come up organically. I can't afford to appear demanding._ Danse still felt a small tightening of his chest in anticipation, trying to push the subject aside and focus for the time being.

The silence inside of the engine chamber was deafening, the faint glow of emergency foot lights and narrow beam from his helmet mounted flashlight offering less than optimal viewing conditions. Were he not able to utilize his HUD, he might have felt more apprehension at possibly being trapped at the bottom of a four story, underground shaft with no power and an undetermined number of Institute abominations still active in the complex overhead.

Danse took stock of the energy still contained within the yellow fusion cell loaded in his rifle, then checked over his shoulder for signs of activity from the maintenance area. The Vault dweller hadn't yet reappeared. _Give her another minute before checking on her progress_ , he told himself, scanning the metal scaffolding supporting the stairs. _You don't want to invalidate her contribution. She's capable. There's time._

That was when he heard it, a hollow clank of metal echoing from the catwalk access high above.

Snapping his head up, he saw movement. His HUD registered several active targets a split second later. _Damn, t_ _hey've found us,_ he thought, butting his rifle against his right pauldron and sighting it to a lower section of stairs, waiting for a clear shot at one of the lead synths as they stepped down.

He couldn't have anticipated the synths exploiting the environment as successfully as they were. Rather than funnel into the staircase, a number of synths had elected to climb over the railing with their superior agility, down the network of interconnected struts. Taking advantage of the fact that these synths couldn't both find purchase on the scaffold and wield their guns at once, Danse concentrated his fire on these, while the few synths on the stairs continued to advance. _Not much by way of cover here_ , he thought bitterly, gradually retreating from the center of the chamber. Allowing himself to be caught so openly was inexcusable.

The first of the stair borne synths touched ground, lifting their firearms and exchanging a series of bolts with the Brotherhood Paladin. They chattered to themselves in irritating mechanical voices, filling the room with in cacophony; one of his least favorite features. They could at the very least have been given more believable voice chips, if he were to have to deal with listening to them.

Danse cast his eyes to the observation window again, without moving his head, not wanting to give away the Vault dweller's position. Should he fail, the success of the mission would rest with her.

Outlined in bright yellow, she trotted from around a corner with a smile but stalled near the window, her expression going slack at the sight of him. "Engine core power successfully restored," overhead speakers announced. "Thermal engine fueled, primed and standing by for your command."

Flicking his eyes back to front as his HUD chirped in warning, Danse shot through the head of the nearest synth, ten feet away. His armor integrity held fast above 90%, having been engineered to better absorb energy projectiles than the units bestowed to Knights, but with enough pinpricks one could kill a man, and the synths kept coming in droves.

He dared another look at the observation window, watching her wrestle with something in between hurried glances towards him. He let it distract him.

"Damn it," he cursed, missing his intended target. His rifle wouldn't respond afterwards, and he hastily reached back for another cell. A synth took the opening, grabbing the barrel of the Righteous Authority as its nearest companion readied to fire. Pulling back on his rifle, Danse bashed his helmet into the synth's head, causing it to loosen its hold and stumble backwards while its equilibrium reset, then swung the rifle around to bludgeon the second to the ground. As he stepped back, a set of mechanical hands closed around his left pauldron, HUD alerting him to an attempted hijack of his power armor. The frame pressed down against his shoulders, suddenly much heavier than a minute ago.

"Command accepted. Commencing five second countdown," the speakers announced. "Five."

Paladin Danse quickly brought his head around to check on the Vault dweller, registering what he was hearing. She mouthed encouragement, face lined with concern. He looked up towards the engine suspended not twenty feet over his head, already beginning to reverberate, and tossed the synth from his shoulder. More grappled across his back.

"Four."

Reaching back, he found a wrist, pulling sharply and swinging the synth attempting to remove the fusion core from his suit in an arc to the ground, stomping on its head and twisting his body towards the blast doors, which had already begun to swing shut. More robotic assailants still clung to him, but he refused the allow the added weight to prevent him from accomplishing his goal.

"Three."

He could see her vainly trying to work the controls behind the glass, trying to buy him time. The doors were within less than five feet. Synths dug their heels in the packed dirt floor.

"Two."

The HUD chirped again, registering the pre-ignition heat signature emitted from the rocket engine, flashing a warning. He grit his teeth, straining as he reached for the narrow gap in the doors.

"One."

Shouting wordlessly in frustration as the doors shut, fingertips scraping the surface, he fell to one knee under the combined weight of his attackers. Their voices drifted into the background as the engine roared. Danse closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. _Blessed is your power, and mighty is your gift of Steel, Creator,_ he recited in his mind.

"Ignition."

Impacted first by the shockwave, second by the most intense heat he had ever endured, he bolstered his position by shifting his upper body weight on his fists. Sweat beaded his forehead, trickling down his temples and chin, his sides, as flames licked around the bodies of the synths piled atop his armor, seeking gaps between the plates, seeping through rubber gaskets and woven mesh and scorching the carefully painted heraldry on his pauldrons and gauntlets. He could hear the synths manufactured skin start to sizzle, smell it burn into acrid blue smoke, circuits popping and frying around him, voices dying as their components melted into slag, dripping onto the ground in metallic pools.

Gradually, the engine began to shut down, heat dissipating from his limbs and torso as redundant cooling systems in both his armor and his body suit began to ramp up, and he could breathe again, the fan in his helmet channeling fresh air over his face and neck as he opened his eyes.

"Test firing completed with an efficiency rating of 96.7 percent," the speakers announced.

He shifted with a grunt, resting an elbow on one knee. Skeletal metallic remains slid from his power armor as he reached up to grasp his helmet. The Vault dweller ran to meet him just as he removed it, his face red and drenched.

"Oh my God," she breathed, gray eyes wide with concern, "are you all right?"

Danse felt his mouth twitch, breathing heavily, setting his helmet beside his knee. "Got cooked," he rasped, "but...thanks to my power armor, I'm still in one piece."

She hovered over him, offering her hand for support, clearly at a loss. He shook his head, grabbing his helmet as he forced himself to stand, ash falling from his armor. "Important thing is that we're alive," he reassured her, "and we've got a path to the transmitter."

Reaching to pick up the Righteous Authority from where it fell, she tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear, presenting the rifle to him, stock first, once he'd locked his helmet back in place. "Elevators should be back up," she said, nodding. "Sir."

Paladin Danse took his rifle from her, assessing it for damage. Thankfully, it appeared serviceable. "Good work," he said, leading the way towards the elevator at the far end of the chamber. "Let's go."

To his consternation, they were met with more synths on arrival to the engine core control room.

His armor's response lagged slightly, he noted, bringing his rifle up against a synth torso and firing through it, point blank. _I'll have to ask Proctor Ingram to run a diagnostic on it once the transmitter is up and running_ , he thought, bearing down on another unit and smashing its face in.

The Vault dweller emerged from her vantage point behind a computer tower once he'd dealt with the last of them, gazing across the broken bodies with a vacant stare, holstering her pistol. "Do you think they were after it, too?" she asked. "The transmitter."

"Highly likely," he replied. Danse's patience was wearing thin; fighting synths always got to him, synths that had the drop on his mission doubly so. The device Scribe Haylen had described in brief just before he'd left the station was nowhere to be found. "Dammit," he sighed, shutting a desk drawer a little harder than he meant to. "I don't see the device anywhere. Fan out and check the synth remains."

It would figure that the very last synth to be checked would have the device in its possession; a box six inches long, covered in indicator lights and switches, with an interface on the back. The Vault dweller turned it over in her hands, studying it, before looking up at him and holding it out.

"Let's get out of here," he told her, declining. "We'll take that service elevator to the surface."

The shipping yard behind the ArcJet complex appeared deserted. His HUD returned zero hits. It was a small victory.

"Well," he began, leading her out into the open, "that could have gone smoother, but mission accomplished."

"We're both alive," she said. Perhaps she thought he meant that in a negative way?

"We were caught unprepared more than once, which is unacceptable," he explained, trying to keep his voice light, "however, your extra gun gave us the edge we needed. I'm not certain I could have accomplished the mission alone." Perhaps if he'd been properly armed, with heavy weapons, but her point still stood. He cleared his throat. "It's a refreshing change to work with a civilian who can follow orders properly," he offered, feeling hope well up in his chest again. He let the conversation stall, waiting to see where she would take it.

She spread her fingers. "Is that all, sir?"

Danse held up a hand. "Not necessarily. I believe we have two important matters to discuss."

"All right," she said, shifting her weight from foot to foot, "I'm listening."

"First, I'd like to compensate you for your assistance during the operation," he said, flipping the Righteous Authority and presenting it to her, stock first. He nodded encouragement as she hesitated, taking it carefully from him and looking it over in her hands. "I think you'll find this weapon useful," he added. "It's a personal modification to the standard Brotherhood issue laser rifle. May it serve you well in battle."

Gaping, she asked, "Don't you need it?"

Danse shook his head. "Brotherhood soldiers always carry a backup." _And you need it more than I do_ , he thought, closing her fingers around the stock. "I insist you keep it."

She murmured her thanks, running her thumb over the engraving along the barrel.

"Now," Danse began with a deep breath, swallowing back doubt, "as far as the second matter goes, I wanted to make you a proposal." She lifted her face, eyebrow raised. "We had a lot thrown at us back there. Our op could have ended in disaster, but you kept your cool and handled it like a soldier." He paused, giving the next part of what he had planned to say more weight. "There's no doubt in my mind that you've got what it takes. The way I see it, you've got a choice. You could spend the rest of your life wandering from place to place, trading an extra hand for a meager reward. Or, you could join the Brotherhood of Steel and make your mark on the world. So what do you say?" _Say yes_.

The Vault dweller hesitated, again. "What...What would be expected of me, if I agreed?" she asked slowly, casting her eyes downward.

Danse bent at the waist, trying to catch her eye. "You'd be under my command, and I'd expect you to follow orders," he explained, leading her attention back up to him. "It wouldn't be mercenary work, like helping me today. This is the real thing. You'd have access to advanced military weapons, your own personal suit of power armor. More importantly, you'd have the whole Brotherhood at your back, ready to spill its own blood to keep you alive, sister." He extended his hand. "Offer stands. Can I count on you?"

She set her square jaw, pursing her lips and worrying at them with her teeth, looking aside. "I...it's not..." Taking a breath and bringing her gaze back to him, "I have to keep moving. I can't...promise to join you, while I have this...thing, I have to see through," she finished lamely.

His brow lowered, frowning slightly. _What are you trying to hide?_ he wondered. Drawing himself up, he nodded. "It's a big decision, so I understand," he acquiesced, holding out his hand for the transmitter. "If you change your mind," he added, taking it from her, "when you're ready...you know where we are."


	10. Diamond City

(Thank you for the comments! This bit was fun to write. I think I handle comedy a little better than I do action, but we'll work on that. I cut it off before it got too long, but the next chapter should be up later tonight or tomorrow. Enjoy!)

* * *

A handful of stars studded the twilight sky overhead as she and Dogmeat entered the outskirts of Boston. Since leaving Cambridge, her load had almost doubled, her knapsack full of fusion rounds for the rifle strapped to her back in a matching sling. Her mechanic's jumpsuit was grimy, long hair soaked with sweat and dust between the hike and their adventure through ArcJet, let down past her shoulders. Having to carry her bag by hand wore on her shoulder no matter how many times she shifted it and she could feel her muscles reaching their limit. As sunlight faded, and the cityscape grew more dense, she could see a glow above the horizon. Diamond City was close, and with it imagined promises of hot food and working showers, of news about her son, so she pressed on.

She could not have said her goodbyes fast enough, back at the station earlier.

Danse had remained behind at the complex to finish his reconnaissance, wanting to provide as much detail to the Scribes that would be arriving once their transmissions were recieved as he could, leaving her to return to Cambridge alone. She wouldn't have felt right about taking off with Rhys' combat armor, even if Danse hadn't explicitly said anything about her giving it back. When she'd opened the door to the station, both Rhys and Haylen were surprised to find she'd come back, minus her Brotherhood escort. Rhys felt well enough to make some snarky comments about shooting his boss in a dark alley.

"Nice to hear you've recovered so quickly," Scribe Haylen said to him, loudly. "I'll bet you're feeling up to patrolling the perimeter now that you've got your armor back." Rhys muttered under his breath, laying back down on his bed and snoring lightly soon after his head hit the pillow. "Sorry, he's always like this, more or less," she had offered to the Vault dweller, "so I'll say 'thanks' for him. You didn't have to bring this back."

She'd shrugged, shedding the combat armor and laying it out on the front desk. "Isn't mine," she said, adding with a faint smile, "Rhys probably wouldn't let you hear the end of it, besides."

The Scribe liked that. "So," Haylen asked slowly, "did Danse...talk to you, about anything while you guys were out there?"

"Yeah," she replied, holding the chestplate in her hands.

"And?"

She set it down carefully with the other pieces. "Not right now," she said, quietly. "There's someone I have to find in Diamond City. It's personal."

Haylen drew her lower lip between her teeth. "You know, once we get in contact with the Prydwen, we could help you," Haylen said softly. "I don't know what sort of trouble you're in, or what your business is," she continued, perception catching the Vault dweller off guard, "and I don't mean to pry, but...ma'am, if any force on Earth right now is capable of helping you fix something, it's us." Haylen's arm extended and drew back, fingers curling, as if going to touch the woman's shoulder and changing her mind. "Just...think about it, okay? T-That was all I wanted to tell you."

The crushed expression on Scribe Haylen's face had sent a pang of guilt through her chest, and the way she'd still insisted on reapplying ointment and taping up her wrists and raw knuckles, on giving her the rifle holster and extra fusion cells for the weapon Danse had gifted her with somehow made leaving even worse.

But it was for the best, she told herself.

Dogmeat slowed to a walk, coming up on a narrow street, huffing. It was blocked off by a gate, slapped together from scavenged building materials, guarded by a couple of men outfitted in stained baseball uniforms, armed with a combination of firearms and bats with nails driven in. Their armor was intended for catchers, or umpires. She was unsure how well their gear would fare in actual combat. Their cohesive look was a sign she'd reached a settlement of some sort. Of course, the large whitewashed letters across the checkpoint reading 'Diamond City this way' helped, too.

Giving her companion a pat on the head to reassure him, she approached the guards, palms spread, to show she meant no harm. "Here to find someone," she explained, "maybe get something to eat. Not here to cause trouble."

"You got a big gun there for not causin' no trouble," one of the guards laughed.

Hands aloft, she said, "Please. I'll be in and out without causing any headaches. Just want to find my son."

The two guards exchanged looks behind their wire masks. "Yeah, yeah," he said, gesturing with his bat, "head on in. Keep your nose clean. Goes for you too, mutt."

Murmuring her thanks as she hurried through the gate, she and Dogmeat continued walking in an arc, street winding around the outside of a reinforced stadium wall. "Fenway Park," she said to herself, finally making the connection between the stadium and 'Diamond City' as the path opened into a plaza with bronze statue of a batter mid swing at its center. Lingering to admire it, in an aside to Dogmeat, "Just between us...mom was always more of a Yankees fan."

"What do you mean you can't open the gate?!" A younger woman dressed in a long red driving coat and cap shouted at the massive, solid gate beyond.

Drawing closer, she could hear a faint buzzing in response, coming from an intercom near where the woman stood with gloved arms folded.

"Stop playing around, Danny! I'm standing out in the open here, for crying out loud!"

"I got orders not to let you in, Miss Piper, I'm sorry. I'm just doing my job," the male voice said over the speaker.

Piper wrinkled her nose. "'Just doing your job'? Protecting diamond city means keeping me out, is that it?" She scoffed, wriggling her fingers menacingly. "Oh look, it's the scary reporter!"

"I'm sorry but Mayor McDonough's really steamed, Piper. Says that article you wrote was all lies. The whole city's in a tizzy."

"Agh!" Piper clutched her head, pacing in a tight circle, frowning sharply in frustration. "You open this gate right now, Danny Sullivan!" she commanded, pointing downwards for emphasis. "I live here. You can't just lock me out!"

Finding herself absorbed by the whole exchange, she wandered towards the gate, catching Piper's eye.

"You," Piper whispered to her, amber eyes sparkling. "You want into Diamond city, right?" She shushed the woman before getting a reply. "Play along...what was that? You said you're a trader up from Quincy and have enough supplies to keep the general store stocked for a whole month?" Piper paused, winking. "Huh! You hear that, Danny? Got a legitimate business woman, here. You gonna open the gate and let us in? Or are you going to be the one talking to crazy Myrna about losing out on all this supply?"

There came a shuffling from the intercom as Danny waffled. "Geez, all right, no need to make it personal, Piper," he whined at last. Piper pumped her fist in the air, mouthing 'yes'. "Give me a minute."

"Better head inside quick before ol' Danny catches on to the bluff," Piper said quietly, waving the Vault dweller on, ducking under the metal slab as it swung outwards and upwards.

She waited until the gate had lifted to follow inside the stadium box office, just in time to see an aging, heavyset man in a tweed suit and fedora walk stiffly up the ramp, fuming, flanked on either side by armed security.

"Piper," He said, voice raised, "who let you back inside? I told Sullivan to keep that gate shut! You devious, rabble-rousing slanderer! Out with you, or I'll have that printer of yours scrapped for this deception!"

Piper spread her fingers, shaking her hands in the air, nonplussed. "Ooh, is that a statement, Mayor McDonough? I can see the headline now: 'Tyrant Mayor Shuts Down the Press'!" As the older man fumbled over his anger to find words, Piper folded her arms and nodded to the Vault dweller. "Why don't we ask our newest visitor for her opinion on the matter, hm? Whatcha think about all this hot air he's blowing?"

She had tried to keep up with the flurry of activity thus far and figured she had a pretty good handle on what was going on, here, old instincts kicking in. "The First Amendment does protect the publication of all statements, regardless of whether coming from the public or private sector," she said, quietly at first. "It sounds as though Miss Piper has a case, here."

McDonough's brows jumped into his hat.

Piper pursed her lips, nodding in approval, finger to her chin. "You don't say? Huh!"

"Is there a city council you could petition for redress of your concerns?" she continued, finding it harder to keep from smiling. "If you genuinely feel your rights to free speech are being infringed upon, I could counsel you-"

McDonough waved a hand dismissively, interjecting with a forced laugh, "Oh, goodness, I didn't mean to bring you into the argument, miss. No, you...you look like Diamond City material. Let me welcome you to the great green jewel of the commonwealth! Safe, happy, a fine place to come and spend your money, settle down. Don't let this muckraker here tell you otherwise, all right?" He chuckled, clasping his hands and smiling earnestly. "Now, what brought you all the way out here?"

She shook her head a little. "Just looking for something."

His smile stayed plastered in place. "Oh, what is it you're looking for?" he pressed, clearly fishing for an angle.

"Who would I talk to about finding a missing person?" she asked. McDonough's eye twitched.

Piper barked a laugh. "Well, whatever you do, don't bother going to Diamond City Security for help."

McDonough was quick to follow with, "Oh, don't listen to her. Er, while I'm afraid that our security team can't follow every case that comes through these hallowed gates, I remain confident that you can find help here." He spread his arms wide. "Diamond City has every conceivable service known to man. One of our great citizens can surely find the time to help you."

She raised a brow, hand drifting to her hip. "The mayor of such a great city must know where I can start," she said.

Called out, McDonough's eyes shifted. "Well, there is one private citizen. Nick Valentine," he admitted. "A...detective, of sorts, who specializes in tracking people down, usually for debts or whatnot." He gestured vaguely. "Now, I have to get going. I'm sorry Diamond City Security doesn't have time to help, but I'm sure Mister Valentine charges a reasonable fee."

With a sigh, Piper called after his retreating back, "This is ridiculous. I want the truth, McDonough!" Her voice softened. "What's the real reason security always shrivels away when talk of missing persons comes up?"

The mayor roared back, hand chopping through the air as he turned, "I've had enough of this, Piper!" He jabbed a finger in the air. "From now on, consider you and that little sister of yours on notice."

"Yeah, keep talkin' McDonough," Piper sighed, watching him leave with his guards, "that's all you're good for." Turning to face the other woman present, Piper smiled pleasantly. "I'm impressed! Not everyone can claw information out of McDonough's tight fisted, chubby hands."

She shrugged, lips quirking into a smile. "I've...had some experience," she said.

"Yeah, no kidding," Piper chuckled, patting her newest friend on the back. "Hey, thanks for backing me up. You said you were lookin' for someone?"

"Yes, my son," she replied, smile fading, gaze dropping to her feet as she shifted her weight.

Piper paused, considering her appearance. "Tell you what, Blue," she said at length. "Let me get you set up with a noodle bowl, then we'll talk, okay?" She smiled again, hands in her coat pockets. "My treat. Whaddya say?" She waggled her brows.

The Vault dweller snickered. "Food actually...yeah. Sounds good," she said.

"C'mon," Piper said, spinning on her heel and walking backwards down the ramp into the stadium, "Takahashi's noodles are practically an institution 'round these parts. You're gonna love 'em!"

Emerging from the tunnel into the open air of old Fenway Stadium with Dogmeat at her side, she was greeted with scattered, slapdash buildings centered around mid field, where a great smokestack stood. Dwellings climbed up and perched in the upper stands, supported by a contrivance of rebar and sheet metal gantries. The stadium steps descended into a central marketplace, the air filled with billowing steam from the noodle stand and shouting from various shopkeepers hawking their wares. It bustled with activity, lending the area a feeling of relative peace, closest to what she remembered of malls prior to the war.

Takahashi turned out to be a robot, a Protectron, she noted with a raised eyebrow as she settled next to Piper at his Power Noodles counter, complete with a jaunty white chef's hat. He stopped stirring a pot of boiling water to lumber over, clawed hands extended.

"Just say 'yes'," Piper whispered, donning a wide smile.

Unsure of what she meant, the Vault dweller stared up at Takahashi as he loomed overhead, lights blinking as he asked something in what she thought was Japanese. "Uh...yes?" she said, which seemed to satisfy him, as he continued down to Piper and repeated the same question.

"What was that?" Piper asked, cupping an ear as she leaned in. "No!" She slapped her hands on the counter. "I can't believe it. I won't!"

Takahashi returned with chopsticks and a ceramic bowl full of steaming broth and rice noodles, arranging both in front of her with a slight bow. It smelled divine. "What did he say?" she queried.

"Alright, lady," Piper said, swiveling on her stool and leaning in, "the jig is up! Takahashi told me everything."

She side glanced at Piper, mid slurp, like she were mad.

"He said your name isn't actually Blue," Piper continued, folding her arms slowly, lifting her chin. "You got some 'splainin' to do, lady. But, uh, finish eating first, you look starved."

Swallowing her current mouthful of soup, "'Blue'?"

Piper shrugged a shoulder. "You're not exactly a ray of sunshine," she explained. "And even if you're not wearing your blue jumpsuit," she continued, earning a wide eyed stare from the woman next to her, "the Pip-boy and all that talk about Constitutional amendments? Dead giveaways. You have just come from a Vault, my friend."

"You could tell all of that in such little time?" she asked, impressed.

Piper tapped the bit of cardstock with 'Press' scrawled on it, tucked in her cap.

She shook her head. "Can't hide much from you," she sighed, smiling faintly. "So...what's going on here, Piper?"

"Okay," Piper said, obviously excited at the prospect of her cooperation, "so here's the deal, Blue. I want an interview." She swept her hand, "Your whole life's story in print. I think it's finally time Diamond City had a little outside perspective on the Commonwealth. You do that, and...and I tell you what." Steepling her fingers, "I'll come with you. Take you to find Nick, maybe help track down your kid. Watch your back while you get used to the world. How 'bout it?"

The Vault dweller stared back into her half empty noodle bowl, chasing noodles around with her chopsticks. "Guess I wouldn't mind an interview," she said.

Piper squirmed, barely able to contain herself. "Oh, that's, that's great. Really."

"Maybe after...can I finish eating?" she asked quietly.

"Absolutely, Blue," Piper laughed, patting Blue's knee. "You take your time. I'm not goin' anywhere."


	11. Diamond City 2

Two noodle bowls, a Nuka Cola and box of gumdrops after sitting down with Piper, and she was feeling pretty full. The sugar wasn't going to do her system any favors, she could tell, but there was something comforting and familiar about dinner, including the company, that left her satisfied for the first time since she'd stumbled out of the Vault. Conversation was driven mostly by Piper, and that was fine. The reporter had an easy manner about her that the Vault dweller found she could get along with, so she responded to the small talk as if chatting with an old school friend. It wasn't hard to see that Piper had a knack for people.

But at some point Piper had touched on family, and that made Blue shift in her seat uncomfortably. She scrubbed her hand through her filmy hair, sighing, then frowned, rubbing her fingertips together with a grimace.

Piper dropped her line of questioning. "Oh!" She tapped her palm with a fist. "Right, we should get you cleaned up, huh? Bet you haven't had a chance since you left, am I right?"

She nodded, keeping the particulars of how she came to be coated in sweat, dirt, grease, and atomized synth to herself for the moment. "Might be nice."

Hopping off her stool, Piper led her towards a stand with a barber's pole. "Trust me, you'll feel that much better," she said, motioning for her to sit in the lone chair. "Hey, John!" she shouted, pounding on the back wall. "Can a gal get some service?"

"What the hell, Piper?" a tall, younger man wearing an old red and white varsity jacket groaned, appearing from behind the facade. "It's after nine. You know our hours."

Piper pointed at the woman seated in the stylist's chair with both index fingers. "You see this?" she said. "This poor soul hiked all the way from Concord. And do you know why, John?"

"No, I don't," he replied with a frown, vaguely aware of where this was going.

Piper put her hand to his shoulder, fist clenched to her heart. "You, John. Your talent. You have...a way. You call to them. The lost. The style-less."

John rolled his eyes. "Piper..."

"Come on, man," Piper prodded. "Do me a favor and make her pretty. Please?"

With a slump of his shoulders signalling defeat, John put up a hand. "Okay, okay, I'm open just this once," he muttered, reaching for a comb from atop the sink behind him. "Hey there, sorry," he said to Blue. "We're normally closed this late, but...well. What can I do for ya?"

She looked up at him. "Wash? Maybe cut." She held up thumb and forefinger, an inch apart.

John nodded, smiling, wrapping a towel around her shoulders. "Got it."

Piper took the opportunity to slip a notepad and pencil from her coat, leaning her shoulder against a post. "You mind if we talk while John does his thing?" she asked Blue, "Just some softball questions to start with, if you don't mind."

She shook her head, before he began scrubbing her hair in a pail full of hot water.

"Good," Piper said, touching pencil to paper. "Now, practically everyone knows that Vaults aren't like the rest of the Commonwealth, but not everyone has actually been inside one. People in Diamond City need to know you're from a different world than them. How would you describe your time on the inside? What was it like?"

Eyes closed, Blue replied, "Sort of...sterile, I guess? Lots of medical staff. Made of metal."

"Right, that's normal from what I've heard. But what about you, specifically?" Piper asked. "I need you to describe how that setting affected you, personally. How you felt, what your daily routine was like."

Blue sat up again as John toweled off the excess water from her hair, began combing through it. "Didn't really have a routine," she admitted. "Wasn't awake long enough to really...do much of anything."

Piper looked up from her notes, a frown spreading across her face. "What's that mean?"

"My family...I was...frozen," Blue said slowly, clippers at her bangs.

"Wait," Piper said, pinching the bridge of her nose, "they boxed you up in a fridge the whole time?" When Blue side glanced at her, eyes sad, trying not to move and ruin John's handiwork, one corner of Piper's mouth raised high. "Wait, wait, wait...step back a second. Blue. Are you saying you were alive before the war? You're telling me you saw everything before they blasted it in pieces?"

"Yes," she replied.

There was a clipping sound as John sheared off a chunk of the Vault dweller's hair. "Oh, oh no, I'm...I-I'm so sorry," he muttered quickly, hands shaking.

"John!" Piper said in disbelief, looking down at the thick locks of dark brown hair wafting to the wooden floor, and back up in tandem with Blue. "Seriously?"

"I said I was sorry!" he insisted. "It's hardly my fault, Piper, that your friend is-"

"Is going to be furious with you in a minute if you don't do something to fix this!" Piper finished for him, tossing a hand towards the large patch of shaved hair on Blue's left temple.

"O-Oh, okay, alright, settle down," John sputtered, going back to work, "I won't charge, even, just...don't go spreading this around, okay?"

Within minutes, he had shaved the rest of the left side of the Vault dweller's head and finished trimming a good few inches more than he'd meant to all around, styling her hair to curl away to the right. Piper was not happy to say the least, now that her source looked more like a Raider than shy, possibly depressed relic of a bygone era. She'd dragged Blue away promptly, taking her to a shack marked 'Publick Occurances'; her news office and loft.

Once they were both inside, Piper sighed against the door. "I'm sorry about that," she said, walking down the stairs to stand near her source. "I should've waited to start until you told me you were ready. That's was unprofessional, Blue."

"It's fine," Blue replied, shucking off her knapsack and rifle holster, setting them against a desk. "You didn't know."

Piper reached up to twirl the tips of the Vault dweller's bangs between her fingers, drawing her mouth into a line in disappointment. "Yeah, but...ugh." She dropped her hand to her side. "Don't suppose you still feel like talkin' after I went and got your head shaved, huh?" she asked, gesturing towards a sofa.

Blue took a seat, running her hand over the stubble at the back and side of her head. It felt strangely light, not just physically. Being clean might've helped. She looked at Piper as she joined her, pulling out her notepad again.

"So," Piper said, clearing her throat, approaching the interview with less of a spring in her step. "You said you were around before the war? You've seen some of the Commonwealth. Diamond City: how does it compare to your old life?"

"It doesn't. But seeing everyone surviving out here, rebuilding...it gives me hope," Blue replied, spreading her fingers across her lap.

"That's surprisingly inspired, Blue," Piper remarked, scribbling that down. "We're definitely quoting that. Now, big question. You came all this way looking for someone. Who is it? What's their name?"

She cast her eyes to the floor. "My baby, Shaun, was kidnapped. He's not even a year old."

Piper shook her head, writing. "Parent after the missing child. As heartbreaking a trope today as it ever was." Looking up from her notes, she crossed her legs, lowering her brows. "Tell me, do you suspect the Institute is involved?"

An image of ArcJet appeared in her mind; the synths with their pale blue skin, exposed hip servos and backbones. Danse being overwhelmed. She cut her train of thought off there, fresh guilt washing over her. She never apologized. "I've...heard that name mentioned before. Who are they?"

Piper pointed towards her with her pencil. "That, Blue, is the biggest mystery in the Commonwealth. No one really knows who or where they are, but their handiwork is all over. We call 'em synths. Synthetic people, sent from their hidden labs to do their dirty work, sometimes even replacing a person with a synth double, a covert agent no one would ever suspect." She rolled a shoulder, continuing, "Now, not everything that goes wrong turns out to be the Institute's doing, but with all they're apparently capable of, there's always a chance. That's why I'm asking."

"Synthetic...people?" Blue asked, brow wrinkling. "Not robots?"

"Well, there's the two major kinds you have to watch out for, the first being an obvious fake, like a robot," Piper explained. "Skin looks like plastic, skeleton might even be showing. You see groups of them scouring the Commonwealth, killing people, scavenging what's left. Sometimes they clean out whole towns." She frowned. "But the second type of synth is the real deal. Skin, blood, warm smiles and guilty glances. Just like a good, old fashioned human. So...do you think they could be involved? The Institute, I mean."

"I suppose its possible," Blue replied slowly, trying to concentrate on what she'd seen that day. Memory slipped through her fingers like smoke, like her mind was purposely evading itself; nothing other than a vague emptiness in her gut.

Piper continued to write, muttering under her breath, "Not even a baby is safe from them. And people wonder why I can't just look the other way."

She smiled a little, watching the reporter at work. Piper was good people, she cared. Why McDonough couldn't see that was beyond her.

"For the last part of our interview, I'd like to do something different," Piper began, looking up at her again. "I want you to make a statement to Diamond City directly. The threat of kidnapping is all but ignored in the Commonwealth. Everyone wants to pretend it doesn't happen. My readers need to hear from you...what keeps you going?" Pointing towards the door, she added, "There's someone out there, right now, who's lost a loved one, but might be too scared or too numb to the world to look for them. What would you like to say to them?"

What could she say? she wondered. That there's hope? Because hers waxed and waned, day to day, and tonight she could feel it start to wane again, under the weight of the odds of finding someone, something that tied back to what happened in Vault 111, that would lead her to Shaun. "I guess," she started thickly, "just to take it as it comes, you know? Keep on going, even when you feel your life's lost it's meaning...because there's someone out there that cares about you."

Slowly, Piper's notepad lowered further into her lap, amber eyes locked with the woman across from her, corners of her lips downturned. "Blue..."

She shook her head, trying to smile. "That's it," she said softly, voice wavering. "All I got."

Piper reached over to cover one of the Vault dweller's hands with her own, giving it a squeeze before releasing it again to finish her notes. "I think that's enough," she said. "It's gonna take some time to put this all together, but I think your story is going to give Diamond City plenty to talk about, when I'm done." She stood up, shedding her coat and hanging it near the door. "So, hey...you're welcome to bunk here tonight," Piper offered. "It's not much, but you can take the sofa. Help yourself to anything laying around. Bathroom's in the back, there."

"Thanks, Piper," she said, smile genuine now, as she unhooked the pistol holster from her waist, setting it on the floor.

Piper tilted her head, half-smiling in return. "No, thank you. Got a feeling you're gonna help a lot of hurting people, Blue. Be proud. Good night."

After wrestling with sleep, the Vault dweller woke to Piper and her younger sister, Nat, finishing up breakfast. They'd tried to be as quiet as possible, letting her get some more rest, and had saved her some toast and eggs, which disappeared in short order. She washed up in the bathroom, finding a spare change of clothes laid out for her; jeans, a slightly ratty undershirt. Looking in the cracked mirror hung above the wash stand, she barely recognized herself. The haircut, the slight pink scar forming along her left cheekbone, circles beneath her eyes from lack of quality rest and anxiety. The world had changed, and so did she.

"Hey, Blue," Piper called from her desk as the Vault dweller emerged from the bath, leaving her work in her typewriter. "You ready to check out Nick's office? Just say the word."

"Yeah," she said, tossing her filthy jumpsuit into her pack rather than leave it lay around Piper's place. "Yeah, think I'm ready."

Piper smiled, getting her coat on. "Just wait and see," she said, "we'll get there, and Nick'll already have a lead lined up for us."

"He's that good, huh?" she chuckled.

Piper held open the door for her. "The best."

When they found his back alley office manned by his secretary, Ellie, their hopes of an easy time of it were dashed. "He's gone missing," Ellie explained, voice cracking. "H-He disappeared working a case."

"That's not like him at all," Piper murmured, frowning. "Which case was he working, Ellie? Don't worry, it's not going in the paper. My friend here has an interest in seeing Mister Valentine returned to duty."

"Skinny Malone's gang had kidnapped a young woman and he tracked them down to their hideout in Park Street Station," the rail thin secretary explained. "There's an old vault down there they use as a base. I told Nick he was walking into a trap, but he just smiled and walked out the door like he always does." She smiled at Piper. "You know how he is."

Piper raised her brows. "Yeah, I do. I certainly do."

"'Skinny Malone'?" Blue asked. "Sounds like a mobster from one of the old serials."

"You're not wrong," Ellie explained. "He's from Goodneighbor, and that means he's into the 'well pressed suits and machine guns' school of thuggery."

"We'll check it out for you, Ellie," Piper offered. "Like I said...friend here has an interest. Don't worry."

The Vault dweller smiled a little at the secretary. "I'll find him, you have my word."

Ellie seemed to crumple with a heavy sigh of relief, face resting in her palm for a moment. "Thank you. Nick should be easy to spot, always wearing that old hat and trenchcoat getup. Please, hurry."

Outside the office, near the neon lit heart-shaped sign advertising Valentine Detective Agency, Piper stood with the Vault dweller for a moment in shared silence. "You okay with this?" Piper said at last. "Going in after him, I mean. I sorta spoke up for you, back there."

She nodded, face blank, eyes focused on space. "You lead the way. I'll get my gear."

Piper looked Blue up and down. "Y-Yeah. Ready when you are."


	12. Unlikely Valentine

Park Street Station was just short of an hour east of Diamond City, between Piper's reckoning and the map of old Boston on Blue's Pip-boy. Piper had nixed following Commonwealth Avenue, the once tree lined, lush street leading straight to Boston Commons, bordered by Park Street. The old trees had all been overturned, used to bolster defenses by Raider and mutant camps all along the avenue; a death trap. Instead, leant over her writing desk, Piper helped trace a path along Boylston street, slightly south, and Blue set a few custom markers in her software to guide them.

"You sure you're okay with this?" Piper asked again, watching as the Vault dweller got out of the chair, stony faced, going to retrieve her rifle. "I mean, I know I keep asking, but...you look..."

Blue glanced up from the Righteous Authority, balanced in her hands. Her voice was even, calm. "It's fine."

Piper folded her arms. "It's just that, if it were me, I might be a teensy more worried about stepping foot into a Vault full of hired thugs."

She tested the rifle for weight, shouldering and sighting it. A strip of thick, ridged rubber adhered to the stock would cushion her shoulder from kickback and provide grip, while the open stock framework lightened the gun considerably. "I told you, it's fine," she insisted, bringing it down from her shoulder and checking the ammunition. A small indicator near the slot for a fusion cell registered how much energy the cell still contained, sitting at 100%. A fresh cell. She took it out, inspecting it, and reloaded it, familiarizing herself with the feel of it.

"Blue," Piper said, suddenly next to her, concerned, "come on. I can tell something's wrong and I don't like the idea of finding out what it is when we're being shot at."

Lowering the rifle, she looked back at Piper. "I...I feel..." she shook her head, unable to articulate the tangled mess in her mind, settling on, "Empty. Weightless." She swallowed, water lining her inner eyelids. "Like this...this isn't going to matter, one way or the other, you know? He's gone. My family is gone."

Putting her hands on Blue's shoulder and forearm, Piper shook her head. "No, no it's not pointless," she reassured her, "because your son's still out there, waitin' for you to find him. And you got me, right?" Waiting for her to nod, Piper added, "And I'm gonna help you get the guy who's gonna help you get...the guy, who..." She trailed off, brows lowering. "Well. We're going to get Valentine back, first."

Blue broke into a grin, unable to resist Piper's humor. "Y-Yeah...okay," she said quietly, setting the rifle down on across the sofa cushions. She started strapping on the rifle's holster, connecting it to the belt holster her pistol rested in, checking the pistol for ammunition.

Piper, already carrying a small firearm at her hip, moved past Blue to pick up the Righteous Authority, giving it a dubious once over. "You, uh, do a lot of shootin'?" Piper asked, peering down its sights.

"Did, once," she replied, grabbing a few clips from her pack, attaching them to her belt. "Father was a regular at the base range. You?"

"I've had my share of overly friendly men and angry glass bottles, sure," Piper quipped, slowing as she tried to read the inscription on the barrel, "but never needed a...what's this say?"

Finished prepping, Blue held out her hand for the rifle. "'Justus Imperium'. Means 'just', 'righteous'. 'Right to rule' sort of thing," she replied. When Piper squinted back, "Two years of Latin, Harvard."

"And you have this, why?"

She reached up to put the rifle in its sling. "It's a long story."

Piper smiled at Blue, who picked up her knapsack in one fist and stood at the door. "Well, we got ourselves an hour between here and Park Station to kill. You ready? I mean, really ready?"

The Vault dweller nodded, lower lip tucked under. "Think I'll be okay," she replied. "Thanks."

"Then here goes nothin'," Piper sighed, leading them out of Publick Occurances.

Boylston Street remained fairly clear of debris and with the exception of two or three cobbled together nests of Raiders tucked into the ruined buildings along the south, relatively empty. Blue had left Dogmeat with Nat back in Diamond City, for both their sakes, making sneaking past the Raiders' bonfires less difficult with just the two of them. Moving undetected would only get easier as sunset continued into twilight, shadows falling heavy across Boston Commons as Piper waved Blue across the intersection of Boylston and Tremont, against the fence headed northeast.

Turning left onto Park, they found the subway entrance clear, blue double doors unlocked.

"Can't tell if we're just that lucky," Piper whispered, reaching for a handle, "or we're expected."

The Vault dweller took point, moving past Piper as she held the door open and reaching back for her rifle, sidestepping down a broken escalator to the ticket counter. She could hear Piper just behind her, but also some shuffling from further inside the paid area, past a row of turnstiles. Rough voices echoed off the tile lined walls, coming into focus as they crawled towards the corner of the ticket counter.

"I still say Malone's weak. We caught that detective snooping around and what does he do? Locks him up, like he ain't got the balls to kill him," a well dressed gunman complained to his partner, both carrying submachine guns.

 _Straight out of a pulp comic_ , she thought, bringing her rifle up and steadying her elbow on a knee.

"Because you know what's gonna happen, right?" he kept saying, "You heard, right? That asshole is rigged to explode, any time he wants to. It's true. My buddy Carl was there when-" He didn't get to finish. A hole in the back of the head will do that.

"Wh-What?! Hey!" his partner shouted, moving to check on the fallen body before he too, crumpled into a heap.

Blue lowered her gun and stood to her feet, Piper following suit with a twist to her mouth. "Wish it didn't have to come to that," Piper muttered, stepping around the bodies.

The Vault dweller paused at the set of stairs leading to the platforms, gripping her rifle tightly, working her mouth. "I don't...I don't like it," she started to say, brows knit. "I don't."

Piper studied her face. "It's okay," she said patiently. "Kind of got the hint that you're not a serial murderer, Blue. These goons just...took the wrong road in life," she finished, shrugging. "Just wish there could be another way to settle things, y'know? But it's either them or us, so...I'd rather it be us."

She nodded, casting a glance down towards the columned station platform below. "More of them," she said quietly.

Piper held her pistol at shoulder height. "Let's get to it."

Crates of ill gotten goods littered the railway platform, providing plenty of hiding spaces and, if it came to it, cover from the triggermen patrolling the platform across the line. Blue and Piper both saw that either end of the tube had suffered a structural collapse, meaning their path led straight through the guards. Both women exchanged eye contact, hunched down behind wooden boxes.

Blue tossed her head towards the nearest of the guards, traversing a plank laid across the subway tracks, hand in his pocket. Piper nodded, eeking past her to take up a position behind the bench closest their target, waiting for her friend to make a move. The Vault dweller raised herself up her knee, firing towards another gunman further away, missing center but grazing his right arm and forcing him to drop his weapon with a cry. "She's here for the detective! Ice 'em!"

Shouting in alarm, the guard on the plank readied his machine gun, rushing towards where Piper waited. She buried a bullet in his gut, another in his chest as he doubled over, falling to his side on the floor.

Several more armed guards swarmed across the platform, raining fire on their position, taunting them. "Malone's gonna have your guts for garters!"

Piper, reloading, didn't miss a beat. "Oh, come on! if you're gonna kill us, kill us, don't torture us first!"

Blue laughed at that, taking another shot with her rifle. This time, she held her breath, balancing the barrel carefully. Her target clutched his leg, a chunk carved from his thigh, and teetered into the triggerman sharing his cover. Piper took advantage, having crept up to the next row of crates, and took the startled man out as well.

Several minutes elapsed before gunfire ceased to echo in the vaulted station and they felt confident enough to leave the safety of cover, crossing the plank to the other platform. "That is a door," Piper remarked, whistling at the signature cog shaped Vault seal embedded in the bare rock wall. "Hope you know how to get that open, 'cause I don't have a clue."

The Vault dweller climbed a set of yellow metal stairs to reach the control panel, but couldn't get it to respond with what was in front of her. Frowning, she traced around a small circular port, and brought her Pip-boy up. Following a faded set of pictographs, she removed a plug from the Pip-boy, attached via a wire, and inserted it into the control port. "I think so," she said, pressing the central red button again. This time, the Vault door hissed, rumbling as it rolled away from the entrance.

Piper took another step towards the automatically extending gantry. "This is...different," she murmured while Blue replaced the plug in her Pip-boy, walking across once the gantry had locked into place. "People were supposed to last two hundred years inside these tin cans? I would've gone batty."

Blue half smiled, following Piper into the Vault. "Got something you want to say to me?" she teased, so softly Piper almost missed it, getting a gentle jab with Piper's elbow in return.

They continued on through the maze of tunnels and partially finished square rooms, sneaking past more of Malone's men in the process. Piper's concern over the taking others' lives had struck a chord within the Vault dweller. She really did not enjoy shooting human beings, but she knew, as Piper herself admitted, that the situation had come down to either their lives, or the lives of people she cared about. Her son's life. And that pushed her out of her comfort zone. But for Piper's sake, she would try harder to avoid letting them get into that position to begin with.

So far, the strategy was working. They made it to the three story tall commons area, emerging from the hall onto the middle level. Across from where they hid, up another level, a triggerman peered into a round glass window. Next to him, a door with a security panel.

"Office of some kind?" Piper suggested in a whisper. "Or a jail."

Blue nodded agreement, staying low as she led Piper around the wall to their right, reaching a flight of stairs. They perched on the third and fourth topmost steps, crouched down, watching the guard converse with someone inside that locked room, his tone mocking. That sealed it for them. Valentine had to be in there.

Several minutes spent waiting for the suit to move on got them nowhere. He continued to stand right next to the window, turning his back to the wall, chewing on the end of a cigar as he stared into space. Behind him, a face appeared at the window, then a moment later, a fist. Annoyed at the sudden knocking, the guard turned again. "Whaaaat?" he complained. "Nicky, I told ya, the boss ain't interested in talking t-"

The guard stumbled and fell, the Vault dweller standing over him, rifle stock smeared with blood. She hoped she didn't hit him too hard. Tapping on the glass caught her attention.

"Hey, you," a hazy, trenchcoat wearing figure silhouetted by lights inside the office called to her, "I don't know who you are, but we've got three minutes before they realize King Kong ain't coming back. Get this door open, will ya?"

Piper was already headed to the security terminal, typing furiously, then waited as Blue took point through the office door as it slid open.

"Gotta love the irony," the figure they found at the center of the room said, reaching into his coat pockets for a lighter and taking a drag from a wrinkled cigarette in the corner of his mouth, "a real reverse damsel-in-distress scenario." Two pinpoints of yellow glowed beneath his tattered fedora. "Question is, why does she come all this way and risk life and limb, for an old private eye?"

The Vault dweller caught herself staring, unable process what, rather who, she was seeing. Fortunately, Piper stepped in. "Nick!" she said, smiling broadly at the detective.

"Miss Wright?" Valentine said, mouth upturned in chagrin. "Goin' a little farther than usual for a story this time, aren't you?"

"This isn't for me, Nicky," Piper said, clasping a hand over Blue's shoulder. "We came to bust you out. Someone needs your help."

Valentine turned his attention back to the Vault dweller, letting out a puff of smoke. Grayish wisps escaped his half exposed cheek, yellowish rubbery skin covering his robotic frame having sustained damage over time, revealing his inner workings here and there. Enough of his face remained to be convincingly human, but the hand he used to hold his cigarette in was undeniably metallic and skeletal. "This the certain someone?" he asked, gesturing to her.

"My son is missing," Blue said at last. "I don't know who took him, or where they went."

Nick looked her over thoughtfully, taking one last smoke. "A missing kid, huh?" He let it drop to the well kept carpet beneath his feet. "Well, you came to the right man sweetheart, if not exactly the right place."

Piper spoke up. "Yeah, about that. What exactly happened, there?"

"Turns out the runaway daughter I came here to find wasn't kidnapped. She's Skinny Malone's new flame, and she's got a mean streak," he explained, straightening his tie. "Had me cooped up down here for weeks before you two showed up." He lifted a hand to quiet Piper, whose mouth had opened again, "I'm more than happy to help her out, but let's blow this place first. Two weeks with Malone is two weeks too long."

Retracing their steps, they found the hallway off the middle level full of guards. Nick led them down another flight of stairs, to the lower level once used as a cafeteria common room. Boxes of chems rested atop old metal wire mesh tables, more triggermen loitering near the corners of the room, guns held ready.

Valentine leant into Blue's shoulder. "How do you want to play this?" he asked, gravelly voice low, watching the men drift from one side to the other. She shook two fingers towards the hallway beyond. He nodded, keeping his profile down, shifting towards the exit with both women in tow.

Down the hallway and around the corner, they came upon a series of rooms, living quarters equipped with group showers and bunk beds, a handful of armed guards spread throughout. Once safely past, they hit a snag.

"On the fritz," Nick said of the reinforced door facing them. "Let me see if I can get it open."

"Hey, Nicky," Piper asked, checking over her shoulder, "did you actually run into Skinny Malone down here? You think he's around, still?"

"Oh," he sighed, popping off the security panel cover and manipulating several colored wires inside, "he and the rest of his boys are waiting for us, somewhere, I'm sure. And the name's ironic, but don't let that fool you. He's dangerous." His mouth pulled to one side, squinting. "Almost got it...hell of a lot easier to do when the lock isn't on the other side. There we are."

The door opened with a soft hiss, back into the main Vault lobby. A heavyset man dressed in a tuxedo glowered at them from across the room, carrying the same make of semiautomatic the guards standing to either side of him had. To his left, a svelte young woman in a glamorous cocktail dress stood, a baseball bat resting on one bare shoulder. She winked at Nick, popping her bubble gum.

Valentine came to a halt, putting his hands in his coat pockets. "Hello, Skinny. Thought I heard big, fat footsteps on the other side of the door."

Skinny Malone appeared less than amused. "Nicky, what're you doin'? You come into my house, shoot up my guys...you have any idea how much this is gonna set me back?"

"We wouldn't even be having this conversation if it weren't for you two-timing dame, Skinny," Nick scoffed. "You ought to tell her to write home more often."

The dame in question shifted her weight on her high heels, using the bat to support her upper body weight and leaning seductively into it. "Poor little Valentine," she cooed. "Ashamed you got beat up by a girl?"

"Should've left it alone, Nicky," Malone said. "This ain't the old neighborhood. I'm king of this castle, you hear me? And I ain't lettin' some private dick shut us down now that i finally got a good thing goin'!"

The woman at his side clicked her tongue in disgust. "I told you we should've just killed him, but the you had to get all sentimental...all that stupid crap about the old times!"

Malone put up his hand. "Darla, I'm handling this! I've got this under control, babe."

"Oh yeah?" Darla sneered, pointing at the Vault dweller and Piper with her bat. "Then what's she doing here, huh? And that nosy reporter, too."

Blue heard herself before she realized she'd even started talking, detached. "Darla, listen to me." Locking her gaze with the young woman, her voice softened, her brows wrinkling, "You have a home to go back to. I don't. Do you want the last time you saw your family to really be the last?" Darla's large, doe-like eyes watered, and Blue could see Nick now listening attentively to her. Feeling self-conscious, she pressed on, "Y-You...You don't have to risk your life here, to back Malone up. You've got a choice." Her grip on the Righteous Authority tightened. "Please...don't throw your life away."

Blinking rapidly to stem her tears, Darla sputtered, "I...I...you're right." With a little smile and a cheeky shrug, she let the handle roll out of her grasp, clattering to the floor.

Skinny Malone jerked his head around as she started to wander past his guards, in a daze. "D-Darla? Wh-Where you goin', babe?"

Darla paused, a strange transfiguration coming over her carefully made up face, looking much younger than before. "Home, Skinny, to see my father. Where I shoulda been all this time," she said, blowing him a kiss. "This is goodbye."

The mob boss hooked his fingers, looking heavenward as he seethed. "Come on, Nicky!" he bellowed, "You ain't satisfied that you cost me my men, so now your friend takes away my girl?"

Valentine smirked, hands still firmly in his pockets. "My friend here just did you a favor, Skinny. You always did have bad taste in women. Now that she's not around to feed that temper of yours, maybe you'll see sense and let us walk?" he suggested. "You still owe me for two weeks in this hole."

Malone scrubbed his thick hand over his face, veins bulging at his neck. "You smug, overconfident ass." He jabbed a finger towards them. "You get until the count of ten. I see your face after that, I'm gunning you all down." Readying his gun, "Ten."

Tipping his hat as they filtered through Malone's men and onto the gantry leading out of the Vault, Nick took Piper and the Vault dweller back across the station platform, up a set of stairs obscured by rubble. A metal ladder offered them street access.

Valentine stretched his arms once topside, as Piper helped Blue out of the hatch. "Ah, look at that Commonwealth sky," he said with a chuckle. Night had fallen while they were in the Vault, the sky speckled with countless twinkling stars, a ribbon of greenish blue cloud slashing through. "Never thought anything so ominous could end up looking so inviting." He frowned lightly, turning to face them. "How did you know where to find me, anyways? Not many people knew where I went."

"Really, Nicky?" Piper deadpanned.

"Your secretary sent us," the Vault dweller said.

He feigned surprise. "She did, eh?" He fished around for another cigarette, setting it alight. "I should give her a raise. Now you," he continued, gesturing with it towards Blue, "mentioned something about your son going missing. I want you to come back to my office, give me all the details. Besides, after all this, I think you've earned a chance to sit down and clear your head." He offered her a half smile through his cigarette haze.

She nodded. "Right behind you," she said.


	13. Getting a Clue

Storefronts in Diamond City's marketplace had shuttered up hours ago by the time Nick, Piper, and the Vault dweller ducked through the arena gate. The security detail patrolling the bases, swatters in hand, mumbled greetings as they passed. One or two had to take a second look at Nick, who chose to remain oblivious, the coolest of customers with a cigarette stub between bony fingers, as he led his newest client through alleyways dimly lit by fairy lights.

Inside the Valentine Detective Agency office, they discovered Ellie had fallen asleep with her head pillowed on her arms at the front desk, an afghan draped about her. Nick stood for a moment in the doorway, hand still on the knob, giving Piper and Blue a brief look past him. He shook his head, moving inside.

Three sets of footsteps across the floor was enough to rouse the poor woman from her rest, a panicked expression falling across her face as her brain tried to focus on what was happening. Ellie looked, startled, between the Vault dweller and Piper, then up to Nick as he reached for the ashtray on his desk, near Ellie's elbow. "Oh God, it's...it's really you," she breathed, sitting upright and pushing away from the desk. "Isn't it?"

Valentine just shrugged, extinguishing his smoke in the ashtray before replacing it beside the broken desk fan. "Well, it is hard to mistake me for anyone else," he said blithely.

Ellie's face lit up, restraint obvious. She hovered, then folded her afghan in a hurry, stowing it atop one of the many filing cabinets lining the wall. "You keep laughing at death and someday death's going to laugh back, Mister Valentine," she chided, still beaming.

"Not as long as I got friends like these," he said, tilting his head towards the ladies at his side.

"Anything for you, Nick," Piper said, shifting out of Ellie's way as the secretary moved towards Blue.

While Valentine settled himself in his rollaround chair behind the desk with a grunt, Ellie quietly turned towards the Vault dweller, whispering, "I didn't think you would actually do it. Bring him back, I mean."

She shook her head. "Don't worry about it, Ellie."

The secretary's smirk gave Nick's a run for his money. "Oh, just like that, huh? Go diving into scary pre-war ruins all the time, do you?" Ellie took a small bag from her skirt pocket. "I know a reward wasn't on the table when you went out to find him, but you deserve everything in the agency's rainy day fund. Plus a little extra...from me." Pressing the bag into Blue's hand, Ellie's expression begged for secrecy. She seemed relieved when the Vault dweller tucked the reward into the pocket of her jeans, offering Ellie a tiny smile. Ellie's eyes danced. Then, loudly, Ellie tried to cover her tracks, "If you ever felt like helping him out with any other case work-"

Valentine closed the file he'd been looking at, slapping it shut on the desktop. "Whoa, one step at a time Ellie, our new friend needs our help first. All right, let's get down to business. Take a seat, make yourselves comfortable."

The Vault dweller set her belongings against the front of the desk, sinking into the client's seat. Piper balanced atop a low metal cabinet beside them, while Ellie took up pencil and clipboard, standing at the ready near Valentine's shoulder.

Nick reached to turn on an old pre-war desk lamp, steepling his fingers in the greenish glow it gave off, elbows resting on the desktop. He cleared his throat. "When you're trying to find someone who's gone missing, the devil is in the details," he intoned, yellow eyes piercing. "When a client sits in that chair, most times they don't realize they've already got all the clues I need to do my job. Tell me everything you can, no matter how painful it might be."

Blue reached up, hooking a finger around the chain at her neck and pulling dogtags out from her shirt collar, staring as she ran her thumb over the typeface. Swallowing hard, she began, "It was...the day the bombs fell," aware of how Valentine's gaze intensified; Ellie's too. "My family, neighbors, we...they put us in a Vault. Vault 111, some sort of cryo facility." Taking a deep breath, she could already feel anxiety tightly coiling around her ribs like a vice, needles pricking at her eyes. "We were frozen. My husband..." Piper leaned forwards at that. "...he had Shaun with him in his tube. We...We had him with us...maybe a month, since the hospital." She tucked her lower lip, drawing her hand across her belly. "It wasn't long enough."

Valentine narrowed his eyes. "And it was Shaun they took?" he questioned, keeping her on track.

 _blurred figures speaking behind frosted glass, voices buzzing, echoing, Shaun crying as his lungs filled with painfully cold air, arms clad in thick protective plastic reaching for him_

She nodded, sniffling, as the first warm tears spilled over her cheeks. "Y-Yes," she replied, "there were...at least two of them."

 _let go, let go of him, struggling with Nate, still groggy, unaware of the gun_

"And they..." Her face contorted, assaulted by the sudden influx of memories, "they just...killed him," she finished, white knuckle grip around the dogtags, hand shaking.

Ellie spoke, then, "It's okay, you don't need to say anything more," her reassurance apparently not out of line, as Valentine nodded.

"But, why?" she asked, quivering, ice in her veins. "Why him?"

Valentine sat back in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. "A good question. Why your family in particular, and why an infant? Someone would be taking on all of his care, and a baby needs a lot of it. And even though your husband's murderers waited until something went wrong before resorting to violence, they still shot the father in cold blood." He paused thoughtfully, rising from his chair to pace behind it. "More importantly," he said, "you were underground, on ice, sealed up tight. That's a lot of obstacles to get through just to abduct a child." Shaking his head as he scanned the ground, literal wheels in his head turning, "These weren't your everyday, run of the mill hired guns. We're talking a small team of professionals."

A sudden clap of Nick's hands startled everyone. "That confirms it," he announced, "this isn't a random kidnapping. Whoever took your kid had an agenda. There's a lot of groups in the Commonwealth that take people. Then you've got the Institute."

Piper blurted, "You think they're behind it?"

"Well, they're the bogeyman of the commonwealth, aren't they?" he said to her, taking his seat. "Something goes wrong, everyone blames them, even you, Miss Wright, but it's easy to see why. Those early model synths of theirs strip whole towns for parts, killing everything in their way. Then they released newer models, good as human, that infiltrate cities and pull strings from the shadows. Best of all, no one knows why they do it, what their plan is, or where they are, not even me! And I'm a synth myself. A discarded prototype, anyway."

"You're a...prototype?" she asked, thoughts having been derailed, grip relaxing somewhat.

Nick turned to look at her, head tilted. "Never seen any other synth like myself," he confided. "There's the older ones that are dumb as rocks and all metal, then there's the newer ones that are almost human. I'm somewhere in between." His eyes lowered, hand reaching to fiddle with the ruin of his last cigarette in the ashtray. "But this is getting us off track. Let's focus on what you saw. What did these kidnappers look like?"

She nodded, the break having lent her some clarity. "The woman was dressed in...a kind of hazard suit," she replied, gesturing as she recalled and tried stepping through the scene, frame by frame. "The man had some sort of metal brace on his arm."

"Lots of hired guns do that to look tough, improvising armor that way," he said, "but the hazard suit, that is interesting. Not many mercs can afford something that fancy. Or get themselves into situations that would call for one. So, this other guy, the one you could actually see. What was he like?"

"He had a...a voice," she said, grimacing, "like sandpaper, and this...this scar across his left eye." She traced her finger over her own features. "Bald. He...He came right up to me, called me their 'backup', before they left. Or I blacked out again."

At that, Valentine froze. "Wait. It couldn't be. You didn't hear the name Kellogg at all, did you?" he pressed, voice serious. Then, over his shoulder, "Ellie, what notes do we have on the Kellogg case?"

After a brief second of flicking through files under K, Ellie confirmed the description. "Bald head, scar, reputation for dangerous mercenary work," she read, bringing the case folder over and setting it on the desk for Nick to peruse, "but no one knows who his current employer is."

Clearly agitated, Valentine took a cursory glance over the papers in his hands, but continued speaking animatedly, "He bought a house here in town at one time, right? Had a kid with him?"

Ellie held her clipboard in both hands, down against her thighs. "Around the west stands, yes, but its been abandoned. The boy would've been around ten years old."

"What?" she gasped, sharp spike in her chest.

"You mean this asshole is right here, in town?" Piper asked, incredulous, before settling back and muttering, "Sorry, language."

Nick put up his hand. "They both vanished a while back, if I'm remembering right, but that house is still there. Let's take a walk over to Kellogg's last known address, see if we can snoop out where he went. You too, Miss Wright."

Ellie escorted them to the door. "Security doesn't really go to that part of town, but still. You just got back. Be careful."

"I always am," he said with a smile.

As Blue hefted her bag and rifle, ducking out of the door, Ellie touched her shoulder. "You've really gone through a lot, haven't you," she said, sympathy edged with anger. "I hope Nick can help you find that monster." The Vault dweller offered the secretary a slight smile and nod as she pulled away, trailing behind Piper and Valentine through the alley.

Nick tightened his strides, slowing so she and Piper could hear, "I didn't want Ellie to hear this, but I think you two should know," he said, voice low as he lit a cigarette, checking both ways before leading them up a ramp. "Everything I dug up about Kellogg before his disappearance is bad news. He's more than a mercenary, he 's a professional. Quick, clean, thorough. Has no enemies because they're all dead," he said, barking a laugh. His eyes turned to the Vault dweller. "Except you. But nine to one odds says he's our man."

"Not sure if that's something I'd be flattered about," Piper muttered as they walked across a gantry, high up in the stands. The housing on this side of the stadium was markedly different than the affluent dwellings near the mayor's office, dilapidated, crumbling. They came to a stop at the largest of them, the door guarded by a surprisingly complicated lock. So complicated, that after watching Valentine struggle to pick it himself, Piper shooed him aside, pulling a bobby pin from her cap. "You mind?"

"By all means, you do the honors," he said, stepping out of her way and dropping his cigarette over the railing. To the Vault dweller, "Once Miss Wright gets us an invitation inside, take a close look around. File says he split town in a hurry. Even someone as calculating as Kellogg must've left something behind."

She nodded as Piper finished picking the lock. "Ladies first," she said, ushering Blue past, then winking at Nick as she followed.

The house smelled strongly of smoke and alcohol even after its last tenant had vacated the premises, stale air almost palpable. Piper wrinkled her nose as they walked down the stairs and into the main living area, Nick gravitating towards a chest next to a stained mattress, opening and pawing through the contents. The Vault dweller lingered near the desk, brushing through papers on the desktop, but none of the documents she scanned seemed related to her case. She moved on to the drawers, bending low, frowning as they yielded nothing. But something tucked into the corner where the desktop met the sides caught her eye; a button.

Valentine had cottoned on to Kellogg's hidden room before she was able to announce her find. "This place look small to you?" he muttered to Piper. "Figure a guy like Kellogg would think bigger." The metal wall before them rattled, receding into a hidden pocket. "Oh."

Inside the smaller safe room, luxuries adorned every surface; intact boxes of San Fransisco Sunlight cigars, cases of aged Gwinnett Stout, a well preserved oiled leather wingback chair. Stockpiles of ammunition and parts to service handguns, a heavy .44 revolver in particular, were arranged across the counter to the rear. Enough canned food lined the shelving off to the side to last a single man a good, long time, while he waited for heat to die down.

Piper picked up a stub from the most recently of smoked cigars, band intact, raising her brow at the detective. "Seen these anywhere before?"

Nick shrugged. "It's definitely an interesting brand, but that alone won't get us anywhere."

"Hey, what about Dogmeat?" Piper asked, tapping her fist into her palm.

The Vault dweller thought back to Cambridge, how the Shepard had sussed out explosives. "He's a hunting dog," she said. "It's worth a try."

Valentine rubbed his chin. "A dog? I've seen Commonwealth mutts track a man's scent for miles," he said, thoughts coalescing. "Let's give him a whiff of one of these cigars, see if that sparks anything."

Later, in front of Publick Occurances, Piper stood next to her younger sister, Nat, who rubbed her eyes blearily. "Sorry to wake you two up, honey," Piper apologized, bending down, "but we needed to borrow Dogmeat for a while."

"It's fine," Nat yawned, "he was hogging the sofa, anyways."

Valentine and Blue watched Dogmeat sniff at the Sunlight cigar stub she held in her palm, his ears perked, tail going still. As she took the stub away, Dogmeat began to whine, eyes darting side to side, pacing in a circle. He barked.

"Well, well, seems the game is afoot," Nick said, impressed, shoving his hands into his trenchcoat. Turning to Blue, his molded eyebrows pressed together. "But before you head out...I know this is personal, you and Kellogg. If you have to face him on your own, just say so. You're likely to have better luck catching him off guard, the fewer people that go with you." He smirked towards Piper, "Double for the press."

Piper scoffed, rubbing Nat's back as the younger girl's eyes began to fall closed. "Hey, I resemble that remark.

Valentine frowned, having rehearsed this mentally hours ago, for this eventuality. "Piper, this isn't a normal case. Kellogg is a murderer. You have Nat to think about, the paper. If you're worried about losing out on a scoop-"

"That's not it at all, Nick," Piper shot back, voice low.

Nick smiled lightly. "Then I'll guess I'll have to bring Blue here back in one piece for you. Trust me, kid. You've got nothing to prove. You did good. Let me take it from here."

"Fine," Piper sighed. "But I want a complete report on my desk tomorrow, 8am sharp, detective. And Blue...you take care of yourself out there, okay? Swing by when you're back in town. Should have that interview published by then."

The Vault dweller smiled. "Can't wait to read it, Piper. And thank you."

Valentine tipped his hat to Piper and her sister before heading towards the city gate, following Dogmeat. Blue returned Piper's disappointed wave as she rushed to catch them.


	14. Reunions

(Not entirely happy with this one. I'll probably go back later and flesh it out some more. It was ridiculously hard to write and I'm just glad to get past it.)

* * *

Dogmeat led them southwards through the ruins of Boston as the moon sank, veering west along train tracks as the sun climbed high. The hunt was fevered, relentless once he'd honed in on imperceptible traces of ash and blood from half finished cigars and discarded bandages, a pace the Survivor could not physically maintain throughout the morning and into afternoon. She berated herself for not having insisted they stayed the night before setting the Shepard loose on Kellogg's trail, but it was pointless to admit she was tired and to think overlong about it would only burn off the adrenaline that fueled her that much faster.

For Shaun. For Nate.

Her lungs burned as she gulped down air, calves threatening to snap like old rubber bands with no elasticity, arms pumping, propelling her body forwards through stands of trees, up craggy hills. Four times. Four times, they had stopped to interpret the signs Dogmeat discovered and so help her, she did not have it in her to stop and start again. If she stopped, it would be for the evening, and fear that their quarry would be gone when she awoke was real. It was real and it snapped at her heels just as the Shepard chased the ghost of Kellogg.

Branch littered foot paths diverged from the train tracks, compacted dirt offering more purchase than the gravel that tried to swallow her. Ahead, Dogmeat swerved towards and across a paved road, between rusted cars, howling as they came upon traces of a rural town. The imposing profile of an armory rose into view.

Dogmeat sniffed enthusiastically at a patchwork barrier of cinderblock and wood scraps erected in front of the armory doors, tail swishing low. He whined, digging at the concrete landing to no avail.

The Survivor drew a deep breath, coming to a stop and slouching against the brick at the entrance, sweat beading her features. Shaking, she wiped her hand down her face.

Valentine, on the other hand, seemed no more out of sorts than when she'd freed him hours earlier, though she figured it to have to do more with what he was than anything else. "Let's you and I handle things from here, give our four legged friend a break," Nick suggested, jamming a cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he studied her. "Maybe take five."

She shook her head, panting. "Could've seen us," she breathed.

He raised a brow. "You see this pile of scrap? Whoever put this here ain't planning on going anywhere anytime soon." To quell any protest, he added, "And the turrets on the roof aren't exactly something you can drag around with you every time you bug out. No, if our man is in here, he's set up shop for good."

"Then what?" she asked, swallowing.

Nick chewed his cigarette. "Wait until dark to head in, give ourselves some cover if we can," he said. With a smirk, "Until then, we sit tight. Some of us aren't machines."

She coughed a laugh, sinking to rest on the concrete, scratching Dogmeat's ear as he padded towards her, nosing under her hand. There were questions she wanted to ask Nick, of course, but she hadn't yet formulated any that didn't sound horribly rude or condescending in her own head, so she let the comment slide past. Exhaustion played no small part, either.

"Do you plan on killing him?" he asked, odd ring shaped irises fixed to hers.

Dogmeat laid across her lap. "I don't know," she replied, fingers in the dog's mane. "Just want my son back."

That seemed to satisfy Nick's question. He settled back on his heels, shoulders squared to the wall behind him, keeping watch over the ruins of town as the Survivor's eyelids became heavy, breathing slowing.

The sky turned to pitch before she startled awake, the Shepard in her lap lifting his head. Valentine was gone. She grabbed her pack, adjusting her rifle as she got to her feet with a stifled groan. Telling Dogmeat to stay put, she cautiously picked her way around the corner of the armory, pulse quickening, anxious. Outlined in moonlight, Nick's fedora and trenchcoat clad silhouette stood near a scaffold alongside the building, a set of stairs up to the roof. Overhead, a motor thrummed.

"The turrets are still active," Nick said over his shoulder. "Did a little snooping while you were out. Figure I can hack into their controls, disable 'em, but we need to beat it inside once they go dark. Whoever's inside may notice his toys are broken before we get the drop on him."

Pulling her rifle free of its holster, the Survivor said, "Ready."

Not one, but two turrets turned to fire on them from the corners of the roof, as she and Nick ran up the stairs and sprinted towards the second story entrance, pinging in her ears as bullets ricocheted off every surface around them. A third turret buzzed to attention as they rounded a corner, rattling off several rounds. Angling themselves and ducking down to confuse the turrets' tracking programming, blocking line of sight, she waited impatiently at Nick's side as he reached up for a terminal embedded next to the door. The turrets tried again in vain to find them, whirring as they pivoted on their tripods, and fell silent as Nick typed in a final line of code, ushering her through the doorframe.

Once safely inside the armory, she and Nick headed down a flight of stairs to a large, open room; a set of offices, dividing walls crumbling.

"Is someone present?" an electronic voice called, somewhere in that maze of desks and cracked plaster.

Valentine put his hand to her shoulder, pulling her back to the stairwell.

"Stealth capabilities," another synth said, stepping through an empty doorframe, pistol at the ready. "Fascinating."

"Directive received from Kellogg," said a third. "Destroy the intruders."

Kellogg. So, he was here. Nick held up his skeletal fingers and began a countdown. On three, they burst from the stairwell and took cover behind the nearest desk, eliciting a volley of laser fire from the synths around the room.

"I understand now why you hide," one synth said. "You fear death."

"Now's a good time to start, pal," Nick shot back, firing. The synth staggered, dropping to the floor, arms flailing as its companions stepped over its prone form. They, too, succumbed under the combined power of Nick's pistol and the Survivor's rifle, powerless to stop the intruders' advance.

Synths were scattered about the facility, on the main and sub floors, easily dispatched when unaware of their presence. Unsurprisingly, Valentine had a knack for going undetected when he cared to, and he cared to when it meant carving a path towards the central command area that much more quickly. If Kellogg was aware someone was inside his safe house, he would undoubtedly be preparing for their arrival. Neither she nor Valentine cared to face the mercenary on his terms.

An elevator, still functional, carried Nick and the Survivor down to the lowest level, where all signage indicated the command center was located. Valentine grunted as the doors slid open. "Some folks never lose their fondness for living in the basement," he said, stepping out.

"Never expected you to come knocking at my door."

She halted mid stride, frozen to the bone. That voice. Valentine scanned the ceiling, pointing her towards a speaker.

"Gave you fifty-fifty odds of making it to Diamond City," Kellogg's rough voice filtered through, "After that? Figured the Commonwealth would chew you up like jerky."

"That him?" Valentine mouthed, molded brow high. She nodded, face pale.

"Look," Kellogg's voice continued, echoing down the hall as they kept walking, "you're pissed off. I get it, I do. But whatever you expect to accomplish down here? It's not gonna go your way. You've got guts and determination, and that's admirable. But you are in over your head in ways you can't possibly comprehend," Kellogg finished vaguely.

"Should've looked for an off switch," Nick sighed, looking to her apologetically, pushing open the door to a large, round room. Among the dilapidated, once rich furnishings suited to a general's office, were several new, spotlessly clean pieces; drawers, medical bedside table with implements she couldn't recognize, bed with stainless steel frame. Someone had gone through an awful lot of trouble to bring these here, that frame most of all. It wasn't as though it just sprang into being. It was solid.

A speaker hung over the far door crackled. "Okay, you made it. I'm just up ahead. My synths are standing down." The mag-lock on the door came undone with a heavy click, swinging inwards under its own weight. "Let's talk."

Nick frowned at her, tilting his head in unspoken question. The Survivor took a breath, stepping into the room beyond, clutching the Righteous Authority to her chest.

"And there she is. The most resilient woman in the Commonwealth," the bald, partially armored figure standing at the opposite end of the long, terminal studded chamber called. Two synths, partially covered in thick, rubbery skin, waited for further orders to either side of him.

A third synth stood guard at the doorway, white plastic firearm held to the side, watching them pass with the same strange, unblinking yellow eyes that Valentine himself had. The resemblance was not lost on Nick, who returned the synth's stare with a guarded, somewhat startled expression, touching the brim of his fedora. She wanted to tell him the gaunt, bare bones synthetic was an empty shell. She wanted to tell him he had a soul, to reassure him they had nothing in common.

But her eyes had locked with Kellogg from across the room, and her world reduced to the distance between them.

"You came a long way," he said as she approached, arms wide. "Let's hear it."

"W-Where is...my son?" she choked out, lump at her throat. Valentine remained at her shoulder, wordless, watching. "Where's Shaun?"

Her husband's murderer was shorter than she recalled, scarred face less severe under the incandescent lighting, but his self assured expression was the same. "Look, I'm just a puppet like you," he said, shaking his head piteously. "My stage is a little bigger, that's all. Shaun's a good kid. A bit older than you expected, am I right? But he's doing great. Only...he's not here." He gestured to the room around them, knowing half smile getting under her skin like nothing ever had, before the war or since. "He's with the people pulling the strings."

Anger exploded through her. "Cut the shit and tell me where he is, dammit!"

Kellogg's face went slack, voice sober. "Fine, I guess you've earned that much. He's somewhere safe, comfortable and loved. A place he calls home. The Institute."

Shaun was supposed to be safe with Nate. He was supposed to have been loved, at home, with her. The suggestion her son was better off with murderers made her vision go red. She tugged her chin towards him, leveling her rifle at his torso. "You...You are going to take me there. Now."

"Take you to him?" Kellogg laughed, flicking his eyes between her face and the barrel of her gun, "Like I could, even if I wanted to."

"Then you'd better try your damnedest to want to," she seethed, gray eyes wild, "and tell me how to get there!"

"Don't you get it? Huh? Your son, he's in a place nobody can reach! You don't find the Institute, the Institute finds you." Her rifle lowered by degrees as she listened to Kellogg ramble. "You open the closet, it's just a closet. You can never find the monster that hides inside. Not until it jumps out at you." He trailed off, meeting her eyes again as he focused. "But...I think we've been talking long enough. We both know how this has to end. Are you ready?"

"Are you?" she snapped.

Kellogg's mouth quirked into a grin, recognition briefly washing over his features, hand resting on the heavy handgun strapped to his hip. He'd seen that look before. "Been ready for a while now," he murmured.

It wasn't clear who fired first. It didn't matter. The room was engulfed in fire in moments, Kellogg melting into shadow as his synth bodyguards descended on her. She retreated behind a console, face contorted in searing pain. A round had grazed her upper arm, undershirt and skin split open, edges torn and singed. Self cauterizing, thankfully. Valentine's pistol fire echoed behind her, rounds emptying into the synth nearest her. It lay twitching unnaturally, close to her feet, as another synth loomed overhead. She blew a hole through its chest, falling onto her backside and kicking out at it, knocking it over. She scrambled upright in time to see Nick take down the remaining synth, its head flowering into a mass of wires and sparks, disappearing behind a row of terminals.

A soft thud near her feet alerted her to something on the floor. A grenade. Eyes going wide, she dropped the Righteous Authority, scooping up the explosive and hurling it away, to detonate in the air. Head throbbing from the noise, she ducked down as Kellogg fired on her position, dusted with shrapnel.

"That all you got?" he taunted, still invisible, though she couldn't figure out how or where. Teeth clenched, she reached for her rifle. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nick shake two fingers towards the steps leading up to a separate level. She thought she could hear faint, yet solid footfalls, frowning as she shifted to crouch near the edge of her console, listening.

Kellogg paused, almost disappointed. "I expected more from you." For all his stealth, he didn't see her coming.

She charged across the steps, driving her shoulder into his side with a primal scream, barreling into him with all her weight and pinning him to the wall. She would never forget the surprise on his face, the strange acceptance as she rammed the barrel of the Righteous Authority into his unprotected gut, and fired, his body going limp. He slid down to kneel on the floor, leaving behind a wet smear of brilliant red, a grenade rolling from his fingers as he coughed, blood bubbling from his lips. The pin remained in his opposite hand, his eyes closing as breath escaped him.

She dove for the safety of another console just as the grenade exploded, laying on the floor for a long while after the ringing in her ears subsided, tears trailing through the layer of dust on her cheeks. Valentine found her that way, knees curled up towards her chest, face flushed.

He hovered over her, bending down low to touch her shoulder. "That bastard won't be hurting anyone else," he said quietly, "ever again. You did good." The Survivor let Nick help her to her feet, still shaken, system awash in adrenaline with nowhere to go. What remained of Kellogg lay in shredded ruins across the floor and steps. "Should look around, get any intel this place has," Nick suggested, supporting her arm until she moved away.

Morbid compulsion led her to examine Kellogg's remains, slowly picking through what once was his leather jacket. His armor hadn't been improvised, it had been part of him; his left shoulder down to his fingertips had been replaced with metal components shaped to mimic realistic human movement. Though it was irrevocably damaged, she still marveled at its complexity. A few feet away, through a curving fragment of skull, she found more evidence of surgical alteration; a chip set into a small drive, wiring frayed.

Her brows knit, frowning deeply. How much of the man she'd fought had actually been human?

"Here," Valentine said loudly, to get her attention, "his files back up his claims." He nodded to the newer computer in front of him, scrolling through a document. "That boy we saw him with back in Diamond City is named Shaun. And he was delivered to an Institute rep."

"There has to be a way, Nick," she said, more forcefully than she'd meant to. "There has to be a way to find them."

"We're in the weeds, here," Nick told her, remaining calm as he stood from the computer, holding up a hand. "Time to take a step back, bring in some fresh eyes. Only person I know willing to tango with the Institute is Piper. Let's head back her way, talk this through before diving into anything else." His expression sympathetic, he offered, "I know the night just got darker, but it won't last forever."

As they retraced their steps, emerging via the rooftop, they were met with strong winds and spotlights. Hair whipped back, she squinted, shielding her eyes with a hand. "My God," Nick whispered at her side.

A dirigible, massive in scale, illuminated by cold floodlights running along its flight deck, sailed across the night sky above, blotting out the moon. Escorted by several vertibirds, it headed eastwards, its intentions proclaimed through loudspeakers mounted bow and stern, echoed through the smaller aircraft following in its wake.

"Citizens of the Commonwealth, do not interfere. Our intentions are peaceful. We are the Brotherhood of Steel."

The Survivor dropped her gaze. The Prydwen. That's what they'd meant. Haylen's transmission got through. She blinked, raising her Pip-boy.

"Deep into that darkness peering," Nick intoned, walking to grip the edge of the rooftop, "long I stood there, wondering, fearing." He trailed off, leaning on his arms, watching the Prydwen birth another vertibird. "The Brotherhood is here to start a war," he said, "mark my words."

After zeroing in on the military frequency Haylen had used, she looked up at Valentine. "There's something I have to do," she said abruptly.

Valentine spent several moments studying her face as Paladin Danse's voice crackled through the speaker on her Pip-boy, ordering a recall of all Brotherhood forces to Cambridge. "I won't ask what," Nick said slowly, "but...if it's got something to do with that thing..."

"It does," she replied, voice firm. "Nick...please. Take Dogmeat back to Diamond City, talk to Piper for me. Help me find those bastards. Please."

He took a deep breath, or facsimile thereof, tipping his fedora back. "You're lucky I owe you a solid, kid," he muttered, not entirely serious. "As long as you swear to be careful, it's a deal."

The Survivor nodded. "I will."

Watching her descend the stairs to the ground, Nick shouted, "How will I contact you when I've found a lead?"

"You'll think of something!" she replied, darting off into the night.

Dawn cast its golden glow over the western hills and with them, the Survivor, skidding downhill in her soft soled boots. The recall transmission looped for the nth time since last evening, increasing in clarity as Cambridge appeared on the horizon, until Paladin Danse could've been beside her himself, spurring her to action. Taking advantage of momentum, she leapt from rock to asphalt, hitting the highway running. A strap slipped down her left shoulder, digging into the wound from last night. Fixed on the intersection ahead, she pulled it back up, sucking air between her teeth. So close now.

A flurry of activity met her at the police station grounds. Armored Brotherhood soldiers patrolled the barricade, some hauling miniguns as they kept watch from above, others at attention on the front steps, or assisting Scribes in carrying crates of ammunition through the propped open station doors. A shining black vertibird descended to perch atop the station helipad, roaring engines gradually calming as its crew disembarked, more supplies in tow.

"Ma'am," the guard posted at the side entrance spoke, exterior helmet speaker clicking. "You have business here?"

She peeled her eyes from the vertibird, throat hoarse, nodding. "Here to see Danse," she explained. When the guard didn't respond, she held out one hand, reaching back for the rifle stock with the other. "Just want to speak with him," she said, pulling the Righteous Authority free, holding it up, inscription outwards before he might register her movements as threatening. That seemed to get his attention, waving her through after a tense moment. "Thanks," she said, holstering the rifle and ducking under barbwire and metal, scanning the courtyard.

The Brotherhood Paladin was inside the station, directing Scribes with medical equipment to Haylen, when the Survivor stepped into the doorway. She dropped her bag at her feet, drawing his dark eyes to her. Surprise registered on his face so quickly, she almost missed it. "You've returned," Danse said, looking her over with a light frown.

"I want in," she said.


	15. A Shadow of Steel

(Apologies for how short this is, and the title is intentional. I wanted to get this bit out to prove I'm still alive after the holiday craziness. The remainder of this quest will happen tomorrow. Chapters on the Prydwen will be significantly longer, as there's a lot of new material I want to add between Shadow and Fort Strong. It didn't make sense to me that a new mother with no combat training would get pushed out onto super mutants in her first hour with the Brotherhood. Anyways! Here's a tiny interlude. Be back soon. -Meg)

(PS, thank you for reviewing! It would figure that as soon as stats started working again, that reviews would be borked. If you don't see yours on the page, don't worry, I still get email notifications and appreciate them all.)

(PPS, updated to suck less 1/4/16.)

* * *

He had not expected to see her again.

Hoped, yes, but the tumultuous decade of service between Lyons and Maxson had taught Danse that there were three certainties in life: himself, his Creator, and death. All things in between were transitory, even his brothers and sisters in arms. Much less wasteland drifters.

When she darkened the station doors that morning, he hadn't recognized her, at first. Certainly, her physical appearance had changed; long hair shaved from one side of her head and cropped to her jawline, her clothing mottled with dirt and rust, possibly blood, torn in several places. The lead Scribe addressing him receded into the background, rundown of their cargo manifest blending with other ambient sounds within the station.

 _It's the eyes_ , he decided. Bruised from exhaustion, but up and alert, glinting like polished metal under the lights in the lobby.

"Paladin Danse? ...Sir?"

"Yes, apologies," he said quickly, refocusing on the knot of Scribes waiting patiently before him. Haylen stood on tiptoes from the opposite room, flagging him down. She, too, had apparently noticed the woman at the door. "Any medical queries should be directed towards Scribe Haylen," he continued, "as she's been responsible for our team's care. She'll handle assigning your duties from here."

"Thank you, Paladin Danse, sir," Scribe Haylen said, nodding to him as she motioned for the medical team to follow her, voice trailing into the makeshift treatment center, explaining the station layout and directing the installation of more sophisticated equipment.

Free from obligations, Danse moved towards the Survivor. The blackened, angry mark on her upper arm became visible to him as he stood before her, peering down. _Classic laser scoring, recent by the reddened blotches surrounding the wound. God, what happened to you?_ he wondered, frowning reflexively. Instead, he reined in his concern. "You've returned."

"I want in," she said, tilting her chin up to look at him, lip chapped and splitting. She looked lucky to be standing upright at all.

"Command will be pleased to hear that," he said with a nod. "Anything in particular change your mind?"

She dropped her gaze for a moment. "What you'd said, back then," she replied, "it...made me realize that maybe, maybe a little grounding would help me. Made me want to...be part of something, again."

"I'm...glad to hear what I had to say meant something to you." That wasn't what he'd expected to hear. The sentiment briefly touched him, but the reality of what he saw, what he inferred from her appearance, meant it was short lived. Hopefully, she hadn't noticed the lapse in his speech as he searched for what to say next. "If I came across as a little...overbearing, it's because the Brotherhood has become my family over the years. It's important to me. I care as much about my fellow brothers and sisters as I do securing peace for the Commonwealth," he said. "But, I understand that it isn't for everyone. Regimented life can be tough for outsiders."

He watched the Survivor scan the floor at her feet, slow to respond. "My parents were from military backgrounds," she explained, looking him in the eye again. "I don't expect things are that different from their day. I can deal with it."

"'Dealing with' and being a part of something are not equal," Danse said, perhaps a little sharper than he'd intended judging by her expression. He softened his voice. "The offer is still on the table. But I want to be sure the person taking it isn't going to throw the opportunity away, or cause us trouble." Nodding to her side, he added, "The same sort of trouble that you seemed to have encountered since we last met."

She ran her hand gingerly over the singed flesh, working her dry mouth. "This...This isn't going to be an issue," she said quietly. "It's been...dealt with. You don't have to worry about me."

"I don't pick and choose which soldiers under my command I express concern for," he countered.

She winced. "Really, it's-"

"Why are you really here, civilian?" he asked levelly, tired of dancing around the obvious subject. Angling for information had never been his strong suit.

It took the Survivor a minute to stop chewing her lip, folded in on herself as if he'd physically hit her, prompting him to take a step back, give her space. "I...I came back," she explained thickly, "because you're the only ones who can help me."

Danse felt tension release from his jaw and shoulders as she shook, crying silently.

Looking up from her, he noticed a few of the scribes Haylen had been working with were beginning to trickle back into the station lobby. More than one scribe feigned disinterest in the conversation he shared, turning back to calibrating instruments once he'd caught on. With a sigh, Danse carefully led the tearful woman into what used to serve, ironically, as an interrogation room, partially closing the door behind them. Inside, he walked in a wide arc around her, armor shaking the floor beneath them as she dabbed the corners of her eyes. Taking a position opposite her, Danse stood with hands at his back. He should've thought to take her aside sooner, been more direct, saved them both the effort. "Take whatever time you need," he told her.

She swallowed hard, nostrils flaring as she took a deep breath, fighting back tears. "I...I'm sorry," she said at last, "I didn't...wasn't lying, what I'd said."

He tilted his head, curious. "Does this have something to do with whatever you couldn't tell me," he asked, "back at ArcJet?" Her surprised expression spurred him on, "I gathered you were hiding something, but couldn't imagine what it was." The woman across from him seemed to lose focus, attention fading. He'd seen that sort of vacant stare before, but in her case, he thought it highly unlikely to be combat related trauma. A moment passed. "I have to ask," Danse said, catching her eye, "that you be honest with me. Not to satisfy myself, or embarrass you. If you sign on, you become my responsibility. I have to know what's going on."

She wet her lips. "The Institute," she said, so low he could hardly hear, "they have my son."

"And you came here because you need help?" Danse tried to confirm, chest tightening with dread. Odds of recovering anything or anyone from the Institute were abysmal. As much as his heart ached for her situation, he couldn't pretend that the Brotherhood was in the Commonwealth to track down missing persons, either. It pained him to think of explaining it to a grieving mother, but it had to be done.

"Please," she said, "teach me. I need to learn how to fight."

Whatever reply Danse had readied died in his mouth. The steely gleam had returned to her eye, hinting at strength buried beneath despair, and his mind switched tracks. If those reserves could be tapped, directed...maybe. But training wouldn't give her anything she didn't already possess herself. It would be a gamble.

"Make me stronger," she begged. "I have to take him back from those monsters."

It was another moment before Danse spoke, keeping his tone neutral. There was no putting the situation in a positive light, so he was blunt. "I can't promise to find your son for you," Danse said at last. The Survivor's face fell, shoulders sloping as her mouth twisted. "What I can promise," he continued, "is to try my damnedest to make a soldier out of you, if that's what you need from me," he said, eyes locked with hers. "One day, soon, the Brotherhood will march on the Institute. And if you're there with us, we can look for him. Together." He held out a hand. "Will you still join us?"

"Yes sir," came her half sob reply, mouth quirking into a smile.

"Good," Danse said, drawing himself fully upright. Doubt still buzzed in the recesses of his mind, but he expected to sleep soundly later that night. "Get yourself cleaned up. I'll call command and inform them a new Initiate will be joining me on the Prydwen."

While the Survivor spent some time in the station washroom, Paladin Danse returned to the lobby, instructing the scribe working the radio to send a message up to command.

Haylen must have finished working with the medical team and searched the lobby for him, briefly. "Well, sir?" she asked, slightly anxious quality to her smile.

Danse nodded an affirmative. The last part of the message the scribe repeated also confirmed Haylen's question. "Forward Air Control, Forward Air Control, Cambridge reporting correction for next extraction run. Two personnel, repeating, two personnel and effects," the young, bespectacled man relayed through a microphone, looking up at Danse with a smile between cheeky grin and admiration, "and one Black Devil, over."

Giving the scribe a friendly nudge with his elbow as Control's reply crackled through the radio, Danse shook his head at the epithet, stepping out from behind the counter towards Haylen. "We're up next," he informed her, "and yes, we'll have company. Go get your things together, meet us topside."

"Aye, sir," Haylen beamed.

The Survivor emerged from the washroom about the same time as Scribe Haylen had finished team carrying a chest from the adjoining bunk room, leaving it with several other, similar boxes marked for delivery to the Prydwen before hurrying up the stairs, towards the roof.

Danse nodded to the Survivor. "Go ahead and stow your gear along with Haylen's," he said, indicating the metal storage chest bearing Haylen's name, nearest the woman's leg. When she hesitated to remove her rifle holster or set her bag down, he added, "We'll be bringing it up with us, but you won't need anything for the moment. Trust me." She began to open the chest, slipping off the holsters at shoulder and hip, carefully arranging her belongings with those already inside.

The reservation in her expression was recognizable; the difficulty parting with what little she had in an uncertain environment. Life outside the Vault had undoubtedly conditioned her to be cautious, so this delayed compliance wasn't something he chose to fault her for. She'd already proven able to take direction when it really mattered. _The rest we can work on, in time,_ he thought, reaching for one of the drab colored flight helmets left out on the front desk, turning it over in his hands.

When the chest was full and secured, the Survivor fidgeting with empty hands, Danse handed the flight helmet to her. "You will, however," he said, corners of his mouth upturning, "need one of these." Her blank stare before taking the helmet, putting it on, made him more eager for her reaction to what came next. "We're going for a little ride."


	16. Prydwen

(Okay, I must apologize again. Came down with a major headache last night and obviously, didn't get this finished as planned. Then when I sat down this morning and started hammering away at it, I wasn't happy with how it was going and added a bit back to the last chapter, as well as splitting this one. I mean, Maxson did not make my job transcribing dialogue easy this time, and I'm still not feeling great. So, introductions and blood samples are coming tomorrow.

TLDR; I am being a jerk and making you go back a page first. I deserve whatever grumbly things you throw at me.

On dialogue while I'm thinking about it, yes, I do go through the in-game subtitles and write everything down while outlining chapters. I don't keep all of it, and I alter a significant amount to better fit the narrative. A good example was reassigning something Haylen says to Rhys after the ghoul attack, having her react first to the idea of putting him down due to injuries instead of joking about it. The original scene didn't make sense to me after hearing Danse's approval speech, when he asks what the Survivor thinks of Haylen. It's a very small thing, but if you know what to look for in my version, it becomes sort of gut wrenching. For me, anyways. And there's quite a few original lines I added, with many, many more to come. Hopefully I can keep it all in character. Scream if I don't.

The other thing I should mention is that I plan on going back even further and debugging, soon. As fast as I kicked out 30k words, there's errors and a couple of descriptive lines I want to add here and there. Don't worry, none of it will be as big an operation as what I did today. If you don't already enjoy reading Without Fear more than once, don't feel obligated to go back. Really. Not a big deal. It's hard to put the brakes on writing new things as opposed to editing the old, for me, but it needs to be done. Soon! I'll let you know when it happens (and date it so new folks don't panic).

Sorry for the wall of text. Carry on.)

* * *

In all her years, she'd never seen Boston quite the same as by vertibird.

The VTOL system allowed for the pilot to maintain low altitude in comparison to the commercial airliners she'd traveled on in the past. Their vertibird had its guns and doors removed, presumably to conserve weight while ferrying crew and cargo. Once they were airborne, both the engines and rush of wind through the compartment made it nearly impossible to hear either the Lancer at the controls, or Scribe Haylen, who was likewise strapped into a folding wall mounted seat next to her. The Scribe smiled at her, presence somewhat comforting.

Paladin Danse rode standing, tucked into a niche on the other side of Haylen, gripping a roll bar with his right hand. He'd re-equipped his helmet just before takeoff, making reading or speaking to him impossible.

The Survivor turned her gaze back towards the horizon as the vertibird circled over the ruins of Cambridge, gaining elevation before banking over the river, destruction stretching in every direction as far as she could see. A lump formed in her throat, familiar landmarks dotting the landscape below her dangling feet. She had guessed her old school grounds would be in shambles, but to actually view Harvard in such a state of advanced decay, no longer host to a throng of students and faculty, hit her in the gut unexpectedly. Her eyes still roamed over the shards of the law offices, broken trees in the commons, expecting against logic or hope to see movement. Something. Anything.

"The Commonwealth looks different from up here, doesn't it?" Danse's voice echoed through speakers inside the lining of her flight helmet, startling her. She glanced back towards him, unblinking eyes of his power armor trained to hers.

It took her a moment to decipher the gesture Danse made afterwards, but the Survivor did finally reach up and swing down the helmet's mouthpiece. "The land, it's...broken," she replied, watching for his reaction to confirm it was working. "So much of the city, the forests, it's all...gone."

"What remains is worth saving," he countered, the decisive, optimistic quality of his tone inspiring. "There are people out there, surviving against all odds in that wasteland. They may have lost loved ones, their homes, possessions. The one thing we cannot let them lose is hope."

Below, the domed rotunda of the Commonwealth Institute of Technology came into view. The prestigious school hadn't suffered such a complete loss as her alma mater, but the roof caved in several spots, vehicles left askew from what she assumed was a panicked evacuation. It, too, was devoid of any signs of life.

Danse spoke after the vertibird had course corrected, bearing east from the college. "I wish more of them believed in our cause," he said. "There's a staggering amount of misinformation and rumors about the Brotherhood, circulating in the Commonwealth, while every man, woman and child down there remain in mortal danger. You're one of a few citizens who've realized the Brotherhood represents the last hope for man's survival. If we fail, it's only a matter of time before the enemy overwhelms the population."

She looked again to Danse. Unable to see his features, the Survivor got the impression he was looking through her, now. "You really believe in what you're fighting for," she said quietly, more a statement to herself than something intended for him to hear. "Don't you."

"I would gladly spill my own blood if it ensures our victory," Danse confirmed.

The remainder of their flight was quiet save for the whirring of blades overhead, engines vibrating the floorboards. It seemed an eternity before the criss-crossing gray runways, littered with plane fuselages torn like tissue paper, and distinctive tall traffic control tower of Boston International Airport crawled across the horizon, and with it, the unmistakable profile of the Brotherhood of Steel's flagship, moored to the tower via cables and hovering, stationary, under her own power.

To her surprise, Paladin Danse stretched out his arm, grabbing a center roll bar as the vertibird banked again, shifting across the compartment towards her, seemingly heedless of the threat of falling. He must've spent an extensive amount of time aboard a vertibird to balance that way, she supposed absently. "We're on final approach, so you should be able to see...there," he said, pride evident in his voice, pointing towards the airship with his free hand. "We'll be meeting Lancer-Captain Kells on the flight deck, once we've docked," he continued, turning his head to face her. "Just stick close to me and try to answer all of his questions."

"Yes, sir," she replied.

The Lancer nosed the vertibird under the Prydwen's flight deck, presenting them all with a spectacular close up view of her workings, titanic propulsion units and web of interconnected catwalks surrounding the docked vertibirds she carried port and starboard. One could make out tiny figures of the crew, even from there.

"It's been far too long since I've been aboard," Danse said, before the vertibird shuddered. He must've anticipated her alarm. "Docking procedure," he assured her.

She leaned as far forward as her restraints would allow, watching curiously as the wings swung up, preparing to meet with the Prydwen. The sound of the engines and props changed, not quite straining, but obviously taxed by their tightly controlled ascension. The Lancer's piloting skills were impressive, she thought, another metallic ring and shudder running through the craft as they were lifted into a docking bay, gantry suddenly parallel with her feet.

"All right, soldier," Danse said, twisting his helmet free as he stepped onto the walkway, carrying it in the crook of his arm. His dark eyes were serious, but still kind, thick brows slightly knit. "This is the moment when everything changes. I hope you're ready."

Behind her, Haylen had already undone her own seatbelts, and paused at the edge of the compartment while the Survivor wrestled with her own. With a small smile, the scribe wordlessly offered her help.

"Thank you," she murmured once Haylen had shown her how the latches operated, setting her borrowed helmet in the seat. "I'm sorry...I'm so uncoordinated."

"Everyone has a first day," Haylen told her. "Good luck, ma'am."

The Survivor stepped down to join Danse. Haylen excused herself past them, checking in with an imposing figure stationed towards the end of the walkway, before scurrying towards what seemed to be the entrance to main deck. As Danse led her towards the officer, she could feel, then see the man's weighing stare on her. This, she supposed, must be Lancer-Captain Kells.

Danse appeared not to notice how Kells regarded her. Perhaps the almost aggressive behavior was normal. "Permission to come aboard, sir?"

"Permission granted," the officer replied, hands at his back, chin up. "Welcome back, Paladin. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on a successful mission. Is this our new recruit?"

"Yes, sir," Danse replied, half turning to glance down at the Survivor, "I've field promoted her to Initiate, and would like to personally sponsor her entry into our ranks."

"Yes, we've read your reports," Kells said. "Elder Maxson wishes to speak with you on the matter, once he's finished addressing the crew."

Danse did not seem pleased. "And my current orders?"

"Proctor Ingram is awaiting your arrival in the armor bay," Kells told him. "Afterwards, you are to report to Elder Maxson. Otherwise, you are to remain aboard the Prydwen."

"Understood, sir," Danse said, saluting with fist closed over his heart. "Ad victoriam."

The Survivor shot Danse an anxious look, earning a light frown in return, before he continued towards the same raised doorway that Haylen had disappeared through earlier. She watched him until he, too, was gone, schooling her features as Captain Kells shifted to stand in front of her. It was an intimidation tactic, she told herself, trying to channel her father, her late husband, picturing their time on base. _He's another drill sergeant, full of bark. Nothing more._

"So, you're the one Paladin Danse has taken under his wing," Kells began, making a show of looking her over. "Don't look much like a soldier to me."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir," she replied swiftly, squaring her shoulders.

Kells scoffed. "'Sorry'? What we need are efficient killing machines, Initiate, not soft, undisciplined wasteland drifters trying to play catch up with the rest of their squadron," he said, full of derision. "If Danse hadn't vouched for you, personally, we wouldn't be standing here, having this conversation." Leaning in close, he continued, "Let me make one thing clear. The Brotherhood of Steel has traveled here with a specific goal in mind. As captain of this vessel, I won't let anyone jeopardize our mission. No matter how valuable they think they are. Understood?"

The Survivor nodded once, lifting her chin to mirror him. "Sir, yes sir," she replied crisply.

Captain Kells seemed placated. "That's all for now, Initiate," he stated. "Your orders are to proceed to the command deck for Elder Maxson's address. Dismissed."

If Kells expected her to salute as Danse had, he didn't wait for one. The Survivor took that as her cue to head up the far stairs, to the door guarded by an armored Brotherhood soldier carrying a minigun. She lingered on the platform before clearing her throat, drawing the soldier's attention. "The command deck, it's...through here?" she asked.

She hadn't expected the feminine voice that responded. "Yes ma'am, through this door, around the stairs. Should be straight ahead from there."

"Thank you, ma'am," the Survivor murmured, pushing the door open.

"Ad victoriam," the soldier replied with a nod.

Inside, the ship was dimly illuminated by pale safety lights, every inch of wall and floor either utilized as storage or to facilitate travel between decks. Scribes darted between patrolling armored forms, on their way about their business, as an announcement began overhead.

"Brothers and sisters, the road behind us has been long and fraught with difficulty, yet each and every one of you surpassed my expectations and rapidly facilitated our arrival in the Commonwealth."

She made her way around the stairs and ladder in the center, through the small crowd gathered around the arch at the opposite end of the deck as the voice continued.

"You've worked tirelessly, without explicit purpose or direction, accomplishing an amazing feat of endurance and engineering. Now, with our ship in position, it is time for our mission to be revealed to you."

As she drew close to the front, the rough, decisive male voice overhead overlapped and gave way to the speaker himself; a stern, commanding man clad in a long leather coat, gesturing towards those assembled as he paced before an array of observation windows.

"Beneath our feet lies a cancer," he declared, "A cancer known as the Institute. Like a cancer, it is a malignant growth that must be surgically removed before it spreads its infection further. The dangerous technologies Institute scientists now experiment with could undo the world for a second time. They've created a weapon so destructive as to transcend the atom bomb. They call this grotesque crime of nature 'Synth'; robotic perversions of technology and living flesh that are free thinking, intended to masquerade as human beings. The very notion of a machine with free will, unfettered, is not only offensive but dangerous. Like the atom, if not harnessed properly, these Synths carry the potential of rendering us extinct as a species."

It was difficult to place his age, but she suddenly found herself caught up in his words alongside the crew surrounding her. Her professors would've killed to have an orator half as gifted.

A severe, dangerous frown wrinkled the twin scars slicing down his face. "I cannot, and will not, allow the Institute to continue this line of experimentation. The Brotherhood, therefore, shall consider both the Institute and their Synths as enemies, to be dealt with swiftly, mercilessly. This campaign will be costly, perhaps moreso than campaigns past. Many lives may be lost. But in the end, we will be saving humankind from its worst enemy. Itself."

Applause broke out from the crowd, shouts of 'Ad victoriam' and 'Maxson' rising above the noise. Eventually, the speaker, whom she assumed by this point must be Elder Maxson himself, waved a hand to quiet them and officially dismissed them, turning to a small control panel beneath the windows and turning off the speakers.

The Survivor remained behind, considering how to approach him, when he spoke first.

"I care about them, you know," he said, fists propped against the panel, head bowed yet somehow able to sense her presence. "The people, down there in the Commonwealth. Everything I've done until this point, everything I've said today, was for them. Ultimately, this war we plan to wage is for their future. Our future. One not yet reduced to ashes." He turned to face her, fully then, voice markedly lower than when delivering his address. "But, you heard my speech along with the rest of the crew. I am Arthur Maxson, Elder of the Eastern Brotherhood of Steel. Welcome, sister."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, matching the level of his voice. "Captain Kells said you'd like to speak with me?"

"Yes, I would," he replied, "but as you've a lot to take in your first day aboard, I'll try to remain brief. You've heard about our purpose here, are aware now of what the Brotherhood's current mission entails." Maxson nodded to her. "I'd like to know more about yours. Paladin Danse mentioned you have somewhat of an interest in seeing the Institute fall."

She supposed news would've reached him sooner or later. "Yes, sir. They...They kidnapped my child," she admitted, eyes narrowing reflexively. "I want him back."

"The Institute preys upon the weakest of us all," Elder Maxson sighed. "I would like to see you reunited, as well, but first we must secure our position here, discover their whereabouts. Then, when preparations are complete, we will see the Institute undone. Until that time, I need every man and woman to be focused on the task entrusted to them. My question to you becomes," he said, gesturing to her, "can you stay focused? Can we count on you to channel that desire into something constructive, and not put your fellow solders' lives in danger?"

"I will, sir," she said, setting her jaw.

Elder Maxson nodded, slowly. "That is precisely what I hoped to hear," he said softly. "Now, as to your orders, you will be paired with a senior officer, who will act as both mentor and observer while you gain experience as part of the Brotherhood, operate in the field during missions. Someone whose experience on and off the battlefield has proven invaluable in helping recruits succeed." He tilted his head slightly, gazing past her shoulder as footsteps lightly echoed through the corridor. "Paladin Danse," Maxson called. "Welcome back."

Her head whipped around, confusion coloring her features for a second as a dark haired, solidly built man in a bright orange high altitude flight suit joined them.

"Good to be back, Elder Maxson, sir," Danse replied, standing at attention near her. Out of his power armor, Danse stood just under a foot taller than she, but retained every bit of the imposing aura he exuded while in it. He caught her studying him, nodding in acknowledgement. "Initiate."

"After some consideration," Maxson told Danse, "I've decided to grant your request, and follow the recommendation lined out in your last report. I'm placing her in your charge for the duration. Make the most of your time."

Suddenly wishing she understood the exchange, she heard Danse reply, "Thank you, Elder." Most of what time?

Elder Maxson took in both of them in his speech, this time, drawing his mouth into a line. "One last thing before you're dismissed," he said, raising a hand. "Bear in mind, before I continue, that what I am about to do, I do not do lightly. It is not considered normal procedure, but neither do we find ourselves under normal circumstances, now." From her periphery, she could see even Danse begin to frown in confusion, at that. "We need every able bodied person on the ground, exercising their talents to their full extent, to have a chance at winning."

The Survivor almost jumped when the Elder addressed her directly. "That's why I've chosen to promote you. With the rank of Knight, you will receive your own armor, so be sure to see Proctor Ingram once we're through here. Danse will no doubt instruct you later in its operation."

Paladin Danse stared. "Yes, sir."

When Maxson remained silent, watching her, she quickly said, "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best to live up to expectations."

"I'm certain that you will," Elder Maxson said, fist to his heart. "Ad victoriam, Knight. Welcome home."


	17. Introductions

(This is a long chapter. It was hard to link everything together and I'm unsure how I feel about it, but hey, it's...maybe...readable.

Reviews are no longer borked! So there's that. Leave me a note, say hi. I don't bite. -Meg)

* * *

Walking the halls of the Prydwen with Paladin Danse was as close to walking a red carpet with a celebrity as the Survivor would ever come. The man himself appeared oblivious to how most crewmen, though space in the corridor was at a premium, actively parted to allow them past, sketching a salute or offering greetings. She'd guessed his rank placed him somewhere in the lower middle chain of command, but she was beginning to rethink her assessment as they climbed up to the main deck.

"We'll head to the armor bay, first," Danse said to her, "introduce you to Proctor Ingram, if she's available. I'd prefer to familiarize you with each of the departments today, but our timing is less than optimal. Proctor Quinlan is occupied, as is Proctor Teagan, both of whom work primarily with Scribes or inventory and I know for fact that both are in short supply." The Survivor successfully interpreted most of that, lengthening her strides to keep herself at Danse's shoulder.

After a minute of companionable silence, Danse turned his head to look at her, the faint scar down his right forehead, eye and cheekbone jumping out at her for the first time. "What was your impression of Elder Maxson?" he asked, tone suggesting his interest was personal.

"He strikes me as a very dedicated man. How old is he?" she asked, honestly curious. Maxson spoke with a silver tongue and bore enough scars to shame a four star general, but the passion in his speech befitted an angry, idealistic student protester. At least, from what she recalled of most decorated leaders in her day.

"In his early twenties, but he's a brilliant tactician and one of the Brotherhood's most formidable warriors," Danse replied. "Elder Maxson possesses a strong vision for our organization's future. Many of us would follow him anywhere, without question. Myself included."

The armor bay lay beyond the mess hall, air heavy with the scent of grease and sweat. Scribes in heavy woven aprons and welding goggles attended to suits of armor hung from numbered repair Bays. A woman in a bare bones armor frame knelt next to Paladin Danse's suit, a shock of red hair falling in her eyes as she reached for a power tool. "Proctor Ingram!" Danse shouted over the sounds of her torque gun, to no avail. "Ingram!"

The Proctor must have finally heard him, because Ingram raised her head, scowling. "Danse!" She shut her tool off, setting it on a workbench. "What the hell did you do to trash your armor this bad," she demanded, stomping towards them, "get yourself stuck in a jet engine?" As Ingram approached, the Survivor noticed she could see through gaps in the legs of the frame, at first thinking it a trick of the light. But when Ingram got up right in Danse's face, it became clear that the engineer's own legs ended at her knees, her body supported by a thick foam and fabric padding lining the rigid frame.

Danse was nonplussed. "A rocket engine, actually," he replied truthfully. The Survivor felt a pang of guilt at that; still needed to apologize for almost killing him. "I sent a report of the incident along with the maintenance request almost a week ago. I apologize the short notice, but am grateful that you are able take a look at it, personally. I trust your work, Proctor."

"Sweet talker." Proctor Ingram rolled her eyes. "I swear, one of these times you bring it back in pieces, I'm gonna lose it and just...haul off and punch you. You'd still say thanks," she muttered before breaking into a grin, reaching into an improvised pocket on the front of her frame, wiping the grease off her hands onto a rag. "So, this's her, huh?" Ingram nudged Danse's shoulder with her elbow, the Survivor in her sights. "You're, uh...not what I was expecting."

She'd heard that before. "How do you mean, ma'am?"

"Well, the last batch of recruits we took on were filthy wasteland scum just looking for a handout," Ingram replied, frame creaking as she shifted her weight. "No offense. You, though...you look like you got a reason to be here," Ingram mused, then laughed, "but everybody down in this lovely little grease pit has a reason for being here, I guess."

"Ingram is usually around if you need help with anything mechanical," Danse told the Survivor. "She's responsible for keeping the Prydwen running, as well as overseeing repairs."

Proctor Ingram nodded, "Yep, if your power armor's too tight in the crotch, Prydwen's about to crash into the ground and we're all gonna die, or a Mister Gutsy goes haywire," she said, "you come see me. I practically sleep here."

"Sounds like your plate's always full, ma'am," the Survivor remarked.

Ingram barked a laugh. "Hell, I got a whole table's worth of duties. Not a day goes by without at least five or six critical failures I have to see to, and if you hadn't noticed, I'm not as..." She lifted one leg after the other, nose wrinkling, "...spry, as I was, so...work sometimes piles up. Anyways, you kids didn't come down here to listen to me gripe. " She flashed a grin down at the Survivor. "You want to see your armor, don't you? Over this way."

Following on Ingram's heels, Survivor passed several other suits of power armor in varying degrees of repair, all painted standard Brotherhood black, accented with red symbols that, if she had to guess, denoted rank. Their profiles all seemed very similar, if not identical in model, even the slightly rusty, discolored suit that Ingram stopped beside. "I personally finished fixing up this T-60 just yesterday," the engineer said, placing a metallic hand on its nearest pauldron. "Whaddya think?"

The Survivor left Danse's side to walk around the power armor, ducking under the cables and chain that secured it to the bay, squeaking past Ingram to come full circle, standing in front of it with lips slightly parted. "It's mine?" she asked quietly as she touched the chestplate, forgetting honorifics.

"Well, long as you don't go jumping into any rocket engines, I guess you can keep it, sure," Ingram deadpanned, crossing her arms. Then, more seriously, she added, "Lost her operator a while back, parts been sitting on a shelf, just didn't have anyone lined up for promotion, I guess. The, uh, left leg actuator's a little sticky, but she'll get the job done for you."

"Thank you," the Survivor said, looking up at Ingram.

"You can thank me by learning some basic maintenance," the engineer replied. "Tell you what. Come by in a few days, after the crazy from travelling up here dies down, and I'll give you a couple pointers. Maybe get her calibrated while we're at it. Sound good?"

"In the interest of self-sufficiency, I would strongly recommend you-"

Proctor Ingram raised an eyebrow. "Nobody asked you," she said, rapping the back of her hand against Danse's shoulder.

"That would be amazing," she said, unintentionally speaking over Danse. "Proctor Ingram. Ma'am."

"About damn time someone besides me took responsibility around here," Ingram laughed.

"I am very responsible," Danse insisted.

"Tell that to the junk pile in Bay Five," Ingram shot back. To the Survivor, "If you can wait until right before Lights Out, that's usually when everyone else clears out of here, and I can actually think straight."

"Yes, ma'am," the Survivor responded, "and thank you, again."

Proctor Ingram half smiled back down at her. "Don't mention it, Knight. And you," she added, pointing at Danse as she slung her rag over her shoulder and headed back to work on his armor, "you stay out of trouble for at least another twelve hours."

Despite how Ingram tore into him, Danse appeared unaffected as he led her back the way they came, past the mess hall a second time, to a branch in the corridor; on their left, an office bustling with Scribes carrying crates into and out of the doorway, on the right, a medical facility.

Two familiar faces appeared from sickbay, rounding the entryway at about the same time as Danse and the Survivor arrived; Rhys, wearing an undershirt that hinted at the wrappings around his torso, his flight suit sleeves tied at the waist, and Haylen, her hand at his back to steady him. Rhys' color had returned and he seemed to manage standing well enough, but out of the remaining members of the recon team, he was the least ecstatic to bump into the Survivor again.

Danse slowed to a stop near his teammates. "Scribe Haylen, Knight Rhys," he said, "I'd like to introduce to you the newest member of the Brotherhood."

"Ad victoriam, Knight," Haylen said, saluting. "Congratulations on your promotion."

Immediately, Rhys turned to Haylen and stage whispered, "Save your breath, she doesn't even know what that means, Haylen."

"Ad victoriam," the Survivor replied to Haylen, naturally following with, "non sibi, sed patriae," before she could stop herself. It was fairly evident who among them understood; Haylen wore a slight, amused smile, Danse seemed to reappraise his charge, but Rhys' craggy face alternated between confusion and frustration, jaw clenched.

"You think you're funny?" Rhys shot back, jabbing a finger towards her. She'd be lying to herself if she denied she felt a small amount of satisfaction at having proven the chronically ill-tempered man wrong, but wasn't proud of having goaded him. "Huh? Think you're smart 'cause you got a few words in your back pocket for when you need to sound important? Well, you're not." He looked the Survivor up and down, leaning into her personal space. "You're not even supposed to be here, wastelander."

"Rhys, that's enough," Danse cut in sharply, causing Rhys to step back, eyes widening at his commanding officer. "Like it or not, you're going to be working together, and have to learn to get along."

Head bowed, Rhys muttered a thin apology.

Paladin Danse broke the tension in the air. "'To victory' is the Brotherhood's rallying cry," he explained to the Survivor, "because we fight for the future of mankind. Defeat is unacceptable." With a nod to Scribe Haylen and Knight Rhys as he continued walking, "As you were."

She turned her head in time to catch a shy wave from Haylen, before the Scribe tucked an arm around Rhys and helped him down the corridor. Haylen's dedication to caring for Rhys despite his attitude was admirable. As she started to wonder if something more than camaraderie was between the two of them, her train of thought was interrupted by Danse.

"Knight-Captain Cade, this is...," Danse paused, looking back into the hallway just as the Survivor hustled to join him in the sickbay entrance, "this is our new recruit. You should have received a request for examination, along with relevant parts of my initial report."

A dignified, slightly older officer with graying hair shaved close to his scalp, Cade stripped off a pair of gloves as he nodded. "I have, Paladin," he replied. "Just finished with my last patient, so you've dropped by at an opportune time. It's good to meet you, Knight," Cade said.

"Good to meet you, too, sir," she replied, suddenly nervous. "Should I...is there anything..."

"Standard procedure," Paladin Danse explained. "All Brotherhood soldiers undergo basic examination upon arrival, to prevent transmission of communicable diseases among the crew. Your blood will also be drawn for Chapter records, mainly for identification purposes in case of death. It's...uncommon for us to refer to them, but you can never be too prepared."

"Hopefully, that means we'll never need it," Cade sighed.

"Makes two of us," she mumbled, rubbing absently at the dogtags hidden beneath her shirt.

Tugging his chin, Danse told her, "I'm turning you over to Knight-Captain Cade. There's another matter I should see to, in the meantime. You'll be in good hands."

The Survivor was left in the center of sickbay with Knight-Captain Cade, surrounded by exam tables, rolling stands for fluid drips, several low slung tray tables with surgical instruments. If it wasn't packed into such a confined space, she wouldn't have thought it much different than hospital environments she'd experienced prior to the war; cleaner, even. More private. Fewer robotic orderlies, much to her relief.

Picking a manila file folder out of a drawer at his desk, Cade laid it open atop an exam table, reading while he spoke. "Records indicate you're a Vault dweller," he said, brows climbing high as he leafed through the folder. "You're probably the healthiest person on board, but even so, I'll ask a few general questions about your medical history, and check your vitals. It'll help me establish a baseline." Cade exchanged his file for a flashlight. "May I?"

"Of course, sir," she murmured, eyelids fluttering reflexively as Cade shone light into either eye, prying them open with his fingers.

"Dilation's good," he said to himself, turning off the flashlight and slipping it into a vest pocket. Cade hummed thoughtfully, pressing his fingertips along the underside of her jaw, her throat. "Have you recently come into contact with anyone sick? Any diseases?"

"Not that I'm aware of," she replied.

"No chronic injuries or illnesses?" Cade asked, slipping a stethoscope from his neck. "Prior drug use? Deep breaths, please."

She shook her head, inhaling until her lungs refused to stretch any further, exhaling slowly.

Two more breaths and Cade nodded, hooking the earpieces around his neck again. "Not very many recruits answer 'no' to all of that," he mentioned, checking her gums and teeth. Whatever he saw, it made him frown lightly. "Mm, go ahead and have a seat," Cade scooped up the folder from the exam table nearest him, tapping the spine on the tabletop, and setting the folder aside, "and let's get some fluids back in you."

"Is something wrong with me?"

"Not necessarily 'wrong'," Cade replied, gathering a sealed, presumably sterilized needle and intravenous tubing, "just a tad dehydrated, and everyone gets exposed to radiation at some point. The saline should help somewhat with-"

"Radiation?"

"Well, yes," he said, rolling an IV stand over, "inflammation of the gums, sunken eyes, slight swelling at the throat are all general signs. It doesn't appear to be life threatening at present, however, I'd rather take care of it now over later, if that's all right? I can get a blood sample for your records at the same time, to save your arm." He considered her expression. "Do you have trouble with needles, Knight? It's a fairly common phobia."

"N-No," she replied vacantly, chewing the inside of her cheek. "I just...wasn't thinking, I guess." The world still suffered the after effects of a nuclear holocaust. Of course there'd be trace radiation in her system. Rolling up her right sleeve for Cade, she pressed her lips together as the needle pierced her skin. The possibility of having had developed an acute case of radiation poisoning without knowing soured her stomach. "It wasn't something I worried about, before."

Cade drew enough blood to fill two vials before hooking her up to a saline bag, guiding her to lean back. "Vaults were intended to provide shielding from radiation, from what I understand," he said, reaching into a nearby drawer, "so it doesn't surprise me." Cade retrieved a syringe, loaded with a viscous red substance, and administered it via a connector in the tubing. "What I'm giving you now," he explained, "is a combination of binding agents, largely harmless...they should wash out of your system, along with any active particles." Tossing the empty syringe into a bin at his feet, Cade added with a slight smile, "Mainly from the thyroid," indicating on his own throat, just below the jaw.

It felt like she'd plunged her arm into an ice bucket, as the solution wound down the tubing and flowed into her vein. Her vision blurred around the edges, body suddenly heavy. Wondering if the extreme cold meant she were having a reaction, she felt her heart flutter. Or maybe she was simply starting to feel the cumulative exertion from the previous week all at once. "D-Doctor?" she whispered, gulping air. "Captain, sir."

"'Doctor' or just 'Cade' is fine, Knight," he replied, searching her face. "What's the matter?"

"It's cold," she said, teeth chattering. "Normal?"

Cade moved to grab a flannel blanket from atop the cabinet. "With this medication? It can be," he said, draping it over her legs, tucking it around her waist. "It varies between patients. You could also be experiencing advanced fatigue."

 _ **whatever he gave you is killing you**_

The Survivor felt her throat tighten, chest constricting, becoming difficult to swallow. _No_. No, the doctor wouldn't poison her.

Cade's rough hand was warm against her forehead. "Fatigue, I think," he said to himself, "possible anemia, but we'll know more after we test your blood sample." A pause as he searched her face. "None of what I see gives me reason to believe you're in danger," he assured her, smoothing her hair back. "Breathe."

She squeezed her eyes closed, doubt and panic grappling with her mind for handholds.

"And again, breathe...from your gut this time," he coached her, patiently. "Slowly."

Nodding, she let her stomach expand as she inhaled, finding she could take more air in than just focusing on her lungs. Gradually, the sensation of choking receded.

"Good," Cade said. "Very good." The Survivor eventually opened her eyes to see the doctor standing over her, an empathetic, approving look to his features. "I think...you're just tired," he told her. The haze plaguing her eyesight faded. "And could stand to eat and drink more."

She still felt as if she'd just jumped into a snowdrift, but the adrenaline in her body was beginning to dissipate. "That's all?"

"Professional opinion," Cade replied, "unless there are any other underlying physical issues we haven't discussed. Even then, your vitals seem fine."

"If...If there were things," she began, slowly, tugging the blanket up around one shoulder, "that happened before...procedures..."

Cade's expression remained unchanged. "Surgeries, you mean?" He seemed to have an afterthought, walking back for her medical file and muttering to himself, "I suppose we should record those as well."

She nibbled her lower lip, watching Cade open the folder and scribble down some notes in classic physician's handwriting. Doctor-patient confidentiality still existed, didn't it? she wondered. If not, what would he do? Get her expelled from the Brotherhood? Dissect her? Somehow, she found it difficult to picture either. Besides, she had no idea what, if any, lasting effects the Vault procedure imparted, other than the obvious chronological mess. And her loved ones.

"Yes, here we are," Cade said, lifting his head to speak to her, pencil at the ready. "Now, what else was on your mind?"

The Survivor swallowed. "I...I was pregnant," she began.

He seemed surprised. "Successful, full-term delivery?"

She nodded. "About a month ago." Cade shook his head, making a note of that as she slowly added, "If you...account for the time difference." Now she had his undivided attention, for better or worse. "The Vault I came from," she explained, "Vault 111. We were frozen, my family. I'm from before the war, doctor."

Cade gaped before furiously writing, adopting a less rude, but still astonished expression. "That's...God, that's unbelievable," he said.

"It's the truth."

"No, forgive me, Knight," he said quickly, rubbing his temples, "I didn't mean to question your veracity, but surely you must understand how that sounds? Before the war, that puts your effective age at over 200 years. It's...well, it's unheard of." Cade sighed in realization, "Probably because it took place in a Vault. But...your family, you said they were subjected to this treatment as well?"

She lowered her gaze. Retelling the story was becoming easier, but the aching emptiness that followed persisted. She couldn't imagine it would ever go away entirely. "I'm the only one left, besides my son. The Institute has him."

Cade's mouth twitched, staring long and hard at her. He returned to his notes. "You have my sincere condolences," he said, clearing his throat. "Have you shared this information about the Vault with anyone else since coming aboard?"

"No," she admitted. "I didn't feel any different after I woke up, and...and was so focused on Shaun. I...didn't think it would be relevant, at the time."

The doctor lifted his head. "It's very relevant," he said, tone one of disapproval. "Apart from any physical concerns, if I were your direct chain of command, I'd want to investigate your mental status, as well. To say nothing of your cognition, your ability to identify creatures and things that just...didn't exist in your world. As your sponsor, I would be starting tabula rasa." Cade's voice had taken on an edge. "You need to tell him, Knight," he said, pale eyes locked to hers. "As your sponsor, he's responsible for your well being, your success. Conversely...he's responsible for your failure."

 _God, Danse_. The Survivor crumpled, skimming her hand over her face. She was so caught up in worry, she hadn't even considered how it might affect his ability to train her, much less what he would think of her. Or that she had put his position in jeopardy.

"You have to tell him," Cade went on, voice and expression softening somewhat, "or I will be obligated to on your behalf."

"I-I will, I just need time," she said in a rush. "Are you...is this going to be reported?"

Cade took a moment before answering, studying the file in his hand. "Apart from my own record keeping purposes, no," he decided, sighing heavily. "No, this shouldn't be spread around, at least not until I've had a chance to review Brotherhood protocols and try to define a precedent." He glanced back up at her. "My main concern, as ship doctor, is that you're sound, body and mind. I can't imagine going through interrogation would benefit either command or you in any way, and as I've said, your physical health doesn't appear to have suffered. But, I urge you to tell Paladin Danse at the earliest possible opportunity. For both your sakes."

Another fifteen minutes had elapsed before Danse appeared at the entry to collect her. By then, Cade had unhooked her from the IV bag, helping her sit upright, legs over the side of the table. "She's all yours, Paladin," Cade said, folding the blanket and storing it above the cabinet again. "She'll have a nice scar leftover from that wound on her arm, but otherwise, your Knight has been awarded a clean bill of health. I'll want to perform a follow up exam sometime next week, to go over the sample results. And Paladin...I recommend directing her to quarters for the remainder of the day. Give her an opportunity to decompress."

"Thank you, sir," Danse replied, glancing between Cade and the Survivor briefly. "We'll head up there next."

The quarters Cade mentioned were located one floor above the sickbay and mess hall; an open, spacious common area in the center of the ship. Lower rank military quarters usually translated into narrow bunks stacked two or three men high, crammed into every available corner, but someone must have purposely designed the crew's quarters on the Prydwen to be far less claustrophobic as those of the past. Each crewman was assigned a modestly sized cot, bedside stand, and personal storage chest.

Paladin Danse stopped by one such bunk, gesturing. "I took the liberty of transferring your belongings, earlier," he admitted. "I believe everything was accounted for, but let me know if anything's amiss."

She knelt by the unmarked chest at the foot of the cot, pleased to find her knapsack and firearms neatly stowed inside. "No, it looks as if it's all here," she said quietly, closing the lid as she stood. "Thank you, sir."

"Not a problem," he said quietly, shifting his weight. "I'll be back for you first thing in the morning, so get as much rest in now as you can. I like to be up before the crew. Fewer people that way."

"Yes, sir," she replied, returning his salute and gratefully sinking into her cot as Danse retreated for the evening. Her stomach growled, but her limbs were too heavy, body unresponsive even to hunger for her to do more than contemplate heading back to the mess hall. Already, her mind was in overdrive, images of everything she'd seen, people she'd met since the morning flashing against her eyelids, as she tried to relax.

It was going to be a long night.


	18. Zero Week

_She awoke to a young child's cries; sharp and plaintive, ringing clearly through the belly of the ship._

 ** _Shaun._**

 _It must be him. Tearing back her blankets, she ran, barefoot on freezing metal, past the rest of the crew still asleep, somehow undisturbed by ithe haunting wail. Chasing the echo, she was drawn up the stairs and into an impossible, steep spiral circling up and up, disappearing into the darkness above. There was no landing in sight, only shadow and the ever increasing chill in her bones, the unforgiving grief gnawing at her heart as the cry became frenzied. Someone was tearing him apart but she could run no faster, strength flagging with each new flight, gravity crushing down on her._

 _Shaun's cries twisted into laughter, low and mocking, as she reduced to crawling on hands and knees._

 ** _"Haven't you been paying attention?"_**

 _The Survivor's head snapped up, eyes wide at the bloodied mercenary hunched down on the flight above, flesh peeled back over part of his skull, body perforated and oozing viscous red._

 _Kellogg's toothy, malformed smile was still piteous. **"You don't find him."**_

 _Shaking off fear, she coiled and lunged, screaming, clawing for Kellogg's ghostly visage in rage, but her fingers tore through smoke and she tumbled, head first into the void below._

Her head connected with something hard, metallic, jolting her awake. Grimacing as she rubbed her scalp, the Survivor sat up on the cold floor between her bunk and neighbor, blearily assessing her situation as the hammering in her chest subsided.

The commons at this early hour were eerily quiet save for the distant thrumming of Prydwen's engines, running lights tracing the angular interior architecture. None of the other crewmen stirred from their beds. The Survivor let her head fall back against her thin mattress, closing her eyes and letting out a long breath. Kellogg's voice lingered in her mind, an oily, filthy feeling crawling over her skin. Hand trembling, she fished the dogtags out of her shirt collar, pressing them to her lips, holding them to her chest as she drifted into shallow, dreamless sleep.

The reprieve was short lived. "Get up, soldier." _Danse._ A soft thump near her head, on the mattress. "Need you to get changed. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

She pushed herself off the floor, blinking off sleep, her commanding officer's broad frame a blur of orange and brown. "Yes, sir," she said, biting back a yawn.

"Today, Knight," he said forcefully, but still respectful of those sleeping around them, "unless you'd prefer to spend your morning scrubbing down the hull."

Turning to find a folded olive drab flight suit atop her cot, she shook her head. "Sir, no sir," she responded quickly, pulling off her undershirt and shucking her jeans, fully intent on avoiding trouble her first full day on board. The flight suit was much like his except in color, and thankfully fairly straightforward to put on in such a hurry. It was also riddled with pockets and thin flexible tubing whose purpose escaped her at the moment.

Paladin Danse turned his head a little to one side from where he stood with his back to her, grasping his opposite wrist tightly. "We'll be...heading up to the flight deck this morning," he informed her. "Hopefully you were able to sleep."

"Yes, sir," the Survivor replied, zipping her suit up, tamping down the bile from both an empty stomach and the cheshire smile she recalled. "Best sleep of my life, sir," she added out of spite for the dead, stomping into her boots. "Ready, sir."

"Good," Danse said, clearing his throat and turning to give her a once over. "Now...let's see what I've got to work with."

After fifteen laps around the Prydwen's flight deck, and what she estimated to be half an hour later, the Survivor was feeling the burn. The predawn sky was dark and overcast, winds at their altitude laden with moisture that clung to every available surface, offering some relief for the sweat but turning the deck into a skating rink. Even with the crosshatching on her soles, she slid more than once when taking the corners, taxing her knees and lower back as she tried to keep her balance.

A couple of Scribes keeping watch from forecastle hung around their windows with passing interest in the activity, but otherwise she and Paladin Danse were alone, the latter standing at attention near the stairs, observing her progress. He'd obviously known to bring a fleece lined leather jacket. The suit she wore had lining of its own, but because of the thin construction around the joints for mobility, still allowed a measure of cold to seep through. Coming up on the stairs again for what would make sixteen, she wondered if she would be issued a coat, too, if being out in these conditions were to become routine. She was almost afraid to ask.

"How are you feeling, solider?" Paladin Danse asked right as she passed him, wind pressing his jacket collar to his chin and ruffling though his black hair.

The Survivor let herself come to rest, breathing through her mouth. "F-Feeling okay...sir," she panted, hands to her knees.

"I asked you a question, Knight," Danse said with a sharp frown, "I didn't say 'stop'. Get moving."

By the time she'd made it an even twenty laps around the flight deck, she was ready to eat her words. Mercifully, her sponsor called her back inside to eat actual food, leading her to the mess hall and waiting behind her while she took double helpings of everything on the chow line that morning. When her plate was stacked high, she jammed a slice of toast between her teeth, following Danse to a table. They were two of a handful of crewmen seated; either at the end of their shifts, or up with the sun and nursing along coffee, with more soldiers forming a column leading out the doorway. There was definitely an advantage to being an early riser, she thought, slouching into her seat and cramming the toast into her mouth.

Unaware she was being scrutinized, the Survivor dug into the egg and pinkish colored home fries, surprised but not repulsed by the acidic aftertaste. After a day without food, it was glorious and warm, its novelty a restorative. The weird fruit on the side was passibly bland, but edible, and disappeared with the rest of her meal in short order, while Danse still chipped away at his own. He watched her for a moment, chewing thoughtfully, before apparently deciding he'd eaten enough and took their plates back.

It wasn't until she was back on deck, switching between endurance tests, that she realized her mistake.

"And time," Paladin Danse announced, clicking the stopwatch in his gloved hand.

The Survivor didn't bother completing the last push up, sitting with her back against the railing and grimacing at the fullness in her stomach. Burning behind her tonsils filled her with urgency, hoping for dismissal. Instead, she watched in horror as Danse took a knee in front of her.

He must've misinterpreted her anxious expression. "Last one. Sit ups, two minutes as before," he said, rugged features softening as he encouraged her. "You're doing well so far."

"Thank you, sir," she responded, shifting herself from the railing and laying back on the deck. The cool, solid metal beneath her provided some relief for her upset stomach and aching muscles, eyes closing. She didn't care to get back up, but then Danse's hand was wrapped firmly around her ankle, stopwatch clicking again as he called for her to start. Keeping her jaw firmly shut, she concentrated on his voice as he counted. As soon as he called time, she scrambled to her feet and vomited over the railing.

"There are people working down there," Danse said at her shoulder, irritated.

The Survivor took a deep breath, letting her head hang. The airport below appeared to rock and sway, nausea rising sharply from her belly. "S-Sorry, sir," she managed to cough out before retching again, cheeks flush.

He sighed. "Next time, don't try to eat so much, so fast," he advised, leaning on the rail beside her. "And...it may help you to look at the horizon, when you start to feel nauseous. The Prydwen might be airborne but she's still a ship. Some of us required an adjustment period," he admitted, alleviating a small measure of her embarrassment.

Mortified into an uneasy silence as she followed Danse back inside, hydrating in the mess hall before traversing the maze of corridors to the common sleeping quarters. It wasn't as though either of them could've actually heard one another over the noise of a hundred other soldiers trampling one another in the halls, still working to get supplies to their new forward bases in the airport and Cambridge police station, establish patrol routes. She would've liked to have apologized for ArcJet, at the least, or simply talked to prove to herself he wasn't disappointed with her so far. Or approach the subject of her pre-war origin. But she stayed quiet, following behind him in an anxious tangle of thought.

The existence of shared, gender-specific showers behind privacy walls just past her bunk was a welcome revelation.

"That was all I needed today, so go ahead and get cleaned up," he told her, staying well behind the division between sleeping and washing areas. "From now on, I expect you to be ready and waiting for me topside, same time every morning. We'll train on lower deck in case of weather, so pay attention to the previous night's forecast. I won't come looking for you, understood?"

"Yes, sir," she mumbled, bitter taste still lingering in her throat.

"And, for future reference," Danse added, rubbing at his neck and looking aside, "it's...not regulation for you to..." He trailed off, voice thin. "Well, there should be room back there for you to change into your uniform," he corrected himself, clasping his hands at his back. "Especially if you're responsible about being awake on time."

The Survivor forced her hands to remain balled at her sides, heat creeping over her face, swallowing. "Th-Thank you, sir, I will keep that in mind," she said, keeping her chin up.

Paladin Danse nodded, seemingly relieved that he need not elaborate. "Five sharp," he reiterated with a nod.

The second day unfolded much like the first, spectre of Kellogg included. Muffled but insistent beeping of the Pip-Boy's alarm from under her pillow broke the cycle of never ending stair climbing, ensuring she got dressed and up to the flight deck on schedule, if not groggy. If her sponsor was pleased she'd been on time or completed all twenty laps, he said nothing. He kept his communication with her throughout the day to a minimum, only speaking to correct or instruct her. Although Paladin Danse was never rude, she began to wonder into the afternoon if she'd inadvertently offended him, but couldn't figure what, if anything at all. Perhaps it was part of his method of training. Her insight into basic was poor, other than what she remembered of her father's stories.

Rather than dismissing her after physical training, Danse escorted her to the office across from Cade's sick bay, gesturing for her to enter first. She gave Danse a questioning look, but proceeded inside, finding herself surrounded by shelves and boxes stacked high with books and scrolls, odd bits of paper stashed here and there around the room. Several of the older, leather bound tomes aligned behind the cluttered desk were familiar from her studies at Harvard, but the collection at large was seemingly disjointed. Among them, a handbook on home robotic repairs for those not electronically inclined, partially complete encyclopedias, blueprints of the Citadel in Washington, and a paperback entitled '1001 Grognak Facts for True Fans' caught her eye. Seated behind the desk was a slight, middle aged man wearing Scribe's robes, poring over a stack of manifests, a round, gray striped cat settled into a ball at his elbow. _Paperweight_ , she thought with a smile.

"Proctor Quinlan?" Danse called from the doorway.

Without averting his eyes from his work, Quinlan replied, "Ah...yes, do set any books or technical documents down where space is available, carefully, of course, and see yourself out. Thank you." The Scribe was soft spoken, possessing a distinct, stereotypical learned English accent much like several of her instructors had. In particular, her socioeconomic professor, who suffered many, many Revolutionary War jokes at the hands of freshmen, especially around finals.

Danse moved to her side. "Quinlan," he tried again. "I'm here regarding the request I'd sent you?"

Adjusting his black rimmed glasses, Proctor Quinlan lifted his head, narrowing his eyes a moment. "Goodness, Paladin," he said, rising from his chair, "my apologies, I was..." Waving his hand over the haphazard piles of paper and books that encroached upon his position, "Attempting to...catch up on paperwork. Quiet moments have been at a premium, you understand. Of course I received your message, but haven't had the opportunity to reply."

"It's fine, Proctor," Danse reassured him. "Your function takes precedence in this situation. Not to increase your workload, but I've brought your new student." The Survivor glanced up at him, and back to Quinlan, apologetic. This was the first she'd heard of any such arrangement.

Quinlan shook his head, coming around the desk to meet her. "No, no trouble at all," he said. "Welcome, Knight. It's a pleasure to have you join us."

"It's nice to meet you, too," she murmured.

"Proctor Quinlan is responsible for assigning Scribes, collecting and preserving information," Danse explained to her, eye contact fleeting. "Among other things, he's the best resource we have in the field for Brotherhood history and protocols. You'll be reporting to him for an hour after we're done training, from here on out. If he's available."

"As woefully behind in assigning research patrols and answering requests for documentation as I may currently find myself," Quinlan said, "there is always time to be found for learning."

"Thank you," Danse said, before turning to face his charge. "You're dismissed once Quinlan finishes for today," he told her, moving past her shoulder into the corridor beyond.

She watched him leave the office, staring long after he'd gone. The explanation had been the most Danse had said to her all day and it bothered her, perhaps more than it really should have. Apart from Haylen, whom she saw the other day, and Cade, with his relatively easy manner and sympathetic ear, she realized Paladin Danse was the only other human aboard she'd had any meaningful, extended interaction with. Certainly, the only person she'd engaged in combat beside. Of course she'd experience some feeling of separation, she told herself. Maybe tomorrow, she could find out the reason for his behavior.

"Under normal circumstances," Proctor Quinlan began, snapping the Survivor out of her thoughts, "this is where I'd provide you with a detailed, proper orientation of my department, and familiarize you with the various duties associated with my title, but...as you've heard, the journey north has proven disastrous to my otherwise efficient organization. With our expanded mission, and so few Scribes, I'm afraid I've had little free time to prepare for your arrival, and find myself with no concrete lesson plan for today." He lifted one thin brow. "Perhaps we could begin with any questions you might have?"

"I'm...at a loss," the Survivor admitted, smiling and spreading her fingers. "I've had so many questions over the last week but now...where to start?"

"Where, indeed," Quinlan mused, rubbing his chin. His lips upturned slightly with amusement. "Ah, I understand you speak Latin," he said to her mild surprise, walking to a shelf containing hand bound manuscripts, running a finger along the tops of the spines. "Once upon a time, when our founder penned what would become the Codex of the Brotherhood of Steel, many of our basic tenets and early histories were recorded in Latin. Can you guess why?"

"Law," she replied, confident with where they were headed. "Many countries modeled their justice system after the Romans. Rome eventually fell, but their language and law remained with the disparate tribes the Romans conquered. It was in common use in higher education right up until the last war."

"Very perceptive," Quinlan remarked, tugging free one of the manuscripts. "As it turns out, several of those who would go on to bear the title 'Scribe' were well versed in the language and had no difficulty reading what the others had previously written down. Roger Maxson, our founder, ordered copies in English be made available so everyone would be equally fluent in our law, but the first Codex, the core of it, is in Latin. Unfortunately, few speak or read Latin these days. The Brotherhood's focus has always been on acquiring lost or new technology, not on history or what it deems 'lesser' sciences, such as linguistics or psychology. I've made a case for formal teaching before, as we've recovered medical journals rife with it." There was a hint of disappointment to his voice at that, but his features lightened once more as he looked at her. "May I ask how you came by your education?"

The Survivor paused. "I studied pre-war law," she replied after some thought. When, not if, she approached Danse about her background, she wanted him to hear it from her. He needed to be first. "Latin was a...hobby of mine."

"I must confess, that does strike me as unusual," Quinlan admitted with a nod. "Organized government and court systems haven't existed in almost two centuries, as I'm aware. Outside of the Republic, but...well. In any event, you are only the second recruit to express an interest in law. There are few books in this collection with either as the main subject, but you are welcome to borrow them. Or, there's several crewmen on board that have studied Latin in their spare time, if you find yourself wanting to practice. Myself included, of course."

"I might," she said slowly. "Thank you, sir."

"You're quite welcome, Knight," Quinlan said, holding out his manuscript. "Here, in lieu of lesson plans for the afternoon." As she took it from him, "It isn't the original text, of course. That remained behind. I've transcribed a majority of the passages pertaining to regulations and early history from the Codex into bound copies, both in original Latin and translated English. Based on what you've told me...I'd suspect you would prefer the Latin?"

The Survivor thumbed through the first few pages. Slogging through the Latin would be an undertaking, but more rewarding having translated it herself. She'd know for sure how accurate it was. "I...yes, actually," she replied, closing it and holding it to her chest. "Thank you, sir."

"You may repay me by continuing to take after him," Proctor Quinlan said vaguely, hand to her shoulder. "Go enjoy your evening, Knight. I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

(Been having health issues the last few days, but sorry for the delay and size of this chapter. As always, your follows, favorites, and reviews are so supportive and greatly appreciated. I also post to my tumblr ( blog/hoshigumo) with update information and notes for future chapters, even if I'm not able to sit at a computer and write. Hope to have another one for you soon. -Meg)


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